


Panicked

by 78revolutions



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drama, Dream Rape, Drugs, Fear, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Memory Loss, Nightmares, Non Consensual, PTSD, Panic Attack, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Slash, Trauma, Triggers, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 59,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/78revolutions/pseuds/78revolutions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is kidnapped in Mombasa and only starts to remember what happened after he sees Arthur a few weeks later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing. Thanks to her and to everyone who has read it and commented.

Later Yusuf would tell him that he found him bloodied and moaning on his doorstep ('like a girl,' he'd added helpfully, after a second). Two guys in balaclavas had shoved guns into Yusuf's face and yelled 'You tell him this is just a warning', then peeled away in a blue van before Yusuf could gather himself to ask any questions. 

'So, you wanna tell me about this warning?' Yusuf asked, after they were settled in the kitchen of his flat and Eames had fully regained consciousness. He opened the freezer and looked for something to put on Eames' face, while Eames sat at the table, gingerly moving his wrist.

'I think it's broken,' he said, distractedly. Eames widened his eyes, trying to look through the eye not swollen shut. 'And this is my wanking hand, shit.'

'Eames.' Yusuf closed the freezer with a bag of frost-bitten vegetables, sounding stern as Eames now squinted in his direction. 'Who was that?'

Eames accepted the frozen veggies with his good wrist, and pressed them to one side of his face, hissing as he did so. The cold felt good in the heat, even without the relief it brought to the bruised eye. 'I dunno,' he said, his voice slightly muffled by the vegetables. 

'They said it was a warning. I figured that meant you knew them.'

'Yeah, well, I don't. And there are a lot of people who might want to issue me warnings; I'm not sure who's at the top of the list this week.'

Yusuf lifted an eyebrow. 'Oh to live such an exciting life,' he said sarcastically.

Eames tried to smile, although with his split lip it came out looking slightly grotesque. 'I see through your jest, good friend, and am aware of the jealousy beneath.'

'Tea?' Yusuf asked, already starting to boil water. Eames nodded, and Yusuf headed back to his fridge to get his milk. 'So, your wrist's broken. Anything else? What did they do to you?'

'I'm not sure it's broken,' Eames admitted, his attention returning to the swollen wrist. 'But it hurts.' He tried to move it again and stopped after a second, taking a deep breath and focusing on Yusuf. 'Other than that, I'm afraid they were a bit dull, really. The eye and lip look a bit fancy, but I'm not sure if they even cracked more than one rib. I've had better tosses with grade schoolers.'

'A rib and your wrist?' Yusuf snorted as he put two Earl Gray tea bags into mismatched teacups. 'That ought to put a kink in your private time.' He looked up, once again serious. 'How long did they have you? What did they want?'

'Oh the usual. Details of how I've slept with all their wives, the millions of pounds I have squirrelled away somewhere.' Eames adjusted the bag of vegetables to see if Yusuf took the bait. He didn't, so Eames continued. 'Really, it was all very… basic. A bit of roughing up, some vague threats - I'll pay off a debt or two and this will be just a bad memory.'

Yusuf poured the water over the tea bags and shook his head, raising an eyebrow and smiling wryly. 'So glad you can brush this off so easily.'

Eames attempted another grotesque smile at him, but his mind was elsewhere already. It was true that he'd had worse 'warnings' before, but this one was weighing on his mind more than he was used to. In truth, he didn't know what this warning was supposed to be because he couldn't remember a thing from any of it. His last memory was going to sleep in his own Mombasa flat on Monday evening - and then he was waking up to a concerned Yusuf shaking him on his doorstep.

Add in that Eames had already noticed the recent needle pricks on his broken wrist and he was afraid this was all about something rather more serious than gambling debts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

Two weeks later they were both in London. His wrist hadn't been broken, just sprained, and Eames had only just taken off the bandage he had been wearing, worried it was ruining the lines of the sleeves of his shirts. His face and torso were still stained with bruises, but they had faded mostly to a dull yellow that gave his skin a rather unhealthy tinge. Used to fielding a lot of questions about the marks, Eames had perfected an impressive story about a street gang and a lovely Italian female tourist who needed saving that fooled almost everyone. 

He still remembered nothing, but now knew that he had been out for almost 48 hours - two whole days gone from his life - not just gone, but taken, somehow, by some thugs. The marks on his wrist meant that it could be have been some sort of extraction - or worse yet, inception - and he sometimes thought that, technically, he should be warning a few people that men in balaclavas might come for them. But he had faith in the security of his mind - they were trained and put in place by the best, after all - and he certainly didn't feel like anything had been taken away or added. Plus, he knew there would be a rather long list of people to warn and frankly he wasn't sure where he would start.

Arthur had called Yusuf, Ariadne, and Eames to London for a job and Eames figured that between the best chemist, architect, and pointman/extractor in the business, if anything had been extracted or incepted from him, someone was sure to notice.

'So, the dream team back together again, huh?' he said as way of greeting, surprising Ariadne in the warehouse Arthur had finagled for their workspace. Ariadne smiled and hugged Eames tightly as he looked around over her petite shoulder. Not quite as nice as the warehouse Saito had bought for them, but certainly nicer than a lot of jobs Eames had pulled.

'Oh my god!' Ariadne said, interrupting her own greetings, as she caught a look at Eames' face. 'What the hell happened to you?'

Eames grimaced and brought a hand to his cheek. 'Its a long sordid tale of intrigue and danger, with yours truly as the hero.'

Ariadne looked disbelieving, as she took in his fully bruised appearance. Most of the bruises on his face were gone, thankfully, and the swelling had disappeared, but Eames knew he wasn't up to his usual visual splendour with the remains of a black eye and a gash still attempting to heal on his lip. He was only thankful his suit prevented Ariadne from giving the same scrutiny to his torso, which was still littered in bruises just turning yellow.

'Involving lots of alcohol and possibly a door you walked into?' Ariadne asked sarcastically, even as she continued to eye him. 

'Hm, that may sound familiar. Let's rehash it all tonight over drinks, shall we?' Eames smiled widely at her - damn, that still hurt his lip a bit - before leaning over to look at the drawings and blueprints she had been studying. 'So what are the details on this job, anyway?'

Ariadne scooped all the assorted papers into a pile and attempted to shield them from Eames' gaze. 'Arthur wants you for the dreamer of one level, but not this one, so don't look too closely or I'll be in for hours more work.'

'Two levels? Any idea what kind of job this is?'

Ariadne shrugged. 'You'll have to ask him, I guess.'

Eames looked around the warehouse again. Someone had set up all the chairs and tables they would need in one corner of the large room, the only one that seemed to be free of leaking pipes or broken windows. Definitely a step down from their last job together. 'Where is he, anyway?'

Ariadne glanced to the main door, as if this would be Arthur's cue to arrive. 'I dunno, he went to get coffees a while ago. Should be back soon.'

Eames nodded, glancing at his watch - a new purchase, after the face of his last one had been smashed during the 'warning'. Arthur, who was usually precise with time, was eight minutes late. Not usually worth noting, he supposed, except that it was Arthur and well - Eames still couldn't get the faint fear that more balaclava-shielded kidnappings might occur at any time to someone he knew.

He cast that thought out of his mind, telling himself he was ridiculous, just as Yusuf walked into the warehouse. 'Yusuf!' Ariadne cried, running to give him a hug. 'Its so good to see you guys again,' she said, still hanging onto Yusuf but looking at Eames as well.

'Nice to see you too,' Yusuf said, trying to juggle an excited Ariadne and the large bag he had carried in, presumably full of the equipment he would need to set up his lab. He looked relieved when Ariadne let him go.

Eames nodded at Yusuf. 'You should come visit,' he said, turning back to Ariadne. 'We both spend most of our time in Mombasa after all. Hit two birds with one stone, as it were. Or one flight, anyway.'

Ariadne raised an eyebrow and snorted. 'Yeah, I'll just jump onto an airplane to Kenya. I'm sure my professors - not to mention my parents - would love that. As it is everyone thinks I'm in London with some girlfriends for spring break. If they knew I was hanging out with a bunch of middle-aged men, I imagine they would not be as excited.'

Eames made an outraged face at the 'middle-aged' comment, but was saved from replying when Arthur pushed his way into the warehouse, his back against the door. He was carrying his usual briefcase, and a precariously balanced tray with four paper coffee cups in it.

As Ariadne rushed to help Arthur, Eames grabbed the edge of the table, suddenly feeling dizzy. His head swam as he watched Ariadne grab the coffees from Arthur, and as Arthur turned around to face Eames and Yusuf --

'Excuse me,' Eames choked out, aware that he sounded panicked, as he turned and fled. He darted around the corner, away from the main room of the warehouse and, more importantly, away from Arthur. Eames was gasping, suddenly covered in sweat, and he had the horrible feeling he might pass out. Relieved to see a door marked WC, he nearly fell against it.

Standing up straight once inside, Eames tried to take deeper breathes as he began to pace the length of the toilet - actually the girl's toilet. He didn't know what the hell was wrong with him, but he attempted to calm himself down with long strides and matching deep breaths.

After a moment or so of this, Eames allowed himself to stop, and leaned against one of the porcelain sinks. His breath was calmer, but he was still sweating, still nervous. He looked at himself in the mirror, his bruised yellow eye in sharp relief to the paleness of his skin, and took one final deep breath. Okay. That was weird.

Eames was saved from too much personal reflection by a knock on the door, and Ariadne's voice from the other side, 'Eames, you in here?' 

'Mmm, yeah, hold on,' Eames said, willing his voice to sound normal. He turned the tap on, hoping that running some cold water on his face might bring some colour back into it, and ran his hands down his face. He let the tap run a bit, getting colder, as he kept his face covered, bent over the sink. He had never had anything like this before. He was covered in sweat, his heart still pounding like he just finished an intense workout, and he was shaky all over. The worst thing was whenever Eames thought of Arthur coming into the warehouse - whenever he thought of him in the warehouse, just outside the door, really - his heart pounded more.

'What the bloody fuck is wrong with you?' Eames whispered into the mirror, after running the freezing water over his clammy face. He slapped his cheeks, which were still pale, and turned the tap off. Maybe he should have eaten a better breakfast after his brief workout that morning, in his hotel's swanky gym. Maybe this was some sort of residual hang over from the minor drinking binge he had gone on with Yusuf a few nights ago - a few games of poker over some whiskey. Whatever, he was fine and the more time it took him to be presentable was getting embarrassing.

Stepping away from the sink, Eames looked at himself one more time in the mirror, shaking his head. He wasn't stupid; he also knew it was possible whatever had happened to him had to do with the bruises on his face and his still aching ribs and wrist. But that was bloody unlikely, he decided quickly, as he went to exit the room.

Ariadne was outside, leaning against the opposite wall, looking bored. 'Oh, hey,' she said, falling into step beside Eames as they walked back into the room of the warehouse. She gave him a side-glance as she asked, 'You okay?'

Eames smiled at her while silently cursing her nosiness. 'Yeah, yeah,' he said. He noticed Yusuf and Arthur, talking to each other at the table, and ignored both of them. He smiled at Ariadne instead, knowing that his smile wasn't shaky and wouldn't give anything away. 'Just got too excited at the prospect of seeing dear Arthur again, I suppose.' He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Arthur stiffen at the table, no doubt ready with some snappy comeback. 'Or maybe it was the idea of the promised caffeine,' Eames finished, grabbing one of the two coffees left abandoned in their paper carrier.

'That's Ariadne's,' Arthur said from a few feet away. 

Eames willed himself not to jump, not to shake, not to freak out in any noticeable way as he turned to look at Arthur. 'What?'

'You take your coffee disgustingly sweet, with milk and three sugars. That one's yours,' Arthur said, motioning to the final remaining coffee.

Any other day and Eames would have taken this as an opportunity to make fun of the fact that Arthur apparently knew how he took his coffee, mocking him all day with ideas of when their wedding should be and what not. Today, though, Eames just put the coffee he was holding back and grabbed the other. 'Cheers,' he said, looking straight at Arthur as if it were a challenge, before walking to Yusuf at the table, once again willing his heart to slow down.

Yusuf gave him a weird look, one that was no doubt echoed by Arthur, but Eames ignored both of them. 'Okay then, gentlemen - and lady - shall we get to work?' Arthur said a second later, and Eames had never been so glad for that frustratingly unflappable professional demeanour.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

The job, as it turned out, was a relatively boring one. Eames wouldn't have taken it, most likely, if Arthur hadn't asked him - Saito's pay out had allowed him to become a bit pickier on which jobs he took, even if did spend most of it on cards, and and Eames was never fond of coming back to England. It seemed suffocating now, being back in the London he remembered from growing up. The same tired pubs were still on most street corners, open until late for the members of the working class who ate their dinners there in ales - except of course where they weren't, where they had been replaced by some trendy bar that American tourists went to. Both options were depressing, and Eames much preferred a job in a new place than one he knew - or had known - so well.

He'd hoped that Arthur getting the team back - minus Cobb, who had so far stuck to his retirement - was a clue that another once-in-a-lifetime job, like the inception, had come up, but Eames figured such jobs have that name for a reason.

Even if it was rather typical espionage, one wealthy businessman hiring Arthur to steal the secrets of another, Eames was committed to doing the job - and most importantly, getting it done quickly. The reason Arthur had felt justified in getting them all together - the best of the best, as he had called them - was because the job was simple, but on short notice. Whoever hired Arthur hadn't given him much time, and Arthur wasn't convinced anyone else he had worked with would be able to finish all the planning and preliminary stages before their mark - a wealthy business man named David Bennitt - left the country, never mind actually finish the job.

Really, London or not, Eames was glad to be working with Ariadne, Arthur, and Yusuf again. Although he managed to see Yusuf a lot in Mombasa, working with him was always a laugh, and he was rather excited to show Yusuf around some of his favourite parts of London. He knew Yusuf had gone to university in Cambridge and wasn't entirely unfamiliar with the area, but Eames was pretty sure a visiting Cambridge boy's version of London was very different than the one Eames had grown up in. He figured a night out in some of the pubs Eames remembered going to when he was younger, mostly because they never carded people who were obviously under eighteen, might result in a first-fight, but would be worth it - provided they were still there, and not overtaken by expensive bars or chain pubs.

Eames also enjoyed Ariadne, although her tendency to question everything occasionally got on his nerves. He admired this habit at times, to be fair - God knew she was the only one who had questioned Cobb's ability when clearly everyone should have been, and he thought it was a sign of her talent in dreamsharing that she wanted to learn so much so quickly. It was only when this tendency was turned on him that it bothered Eames - he had learned this after a few too many glasses of wine one night with her in Paris. Eames prized his secrets and his privacy, which were understandably valuable in the dreamsharing business, and he found it frustrating that Ariadne hadn't learned this lesson yet. 

And seeing Arthur, too, was a good thing - or was supposed to be anyway. They had kept in faint contact in the few months since the Fischer job, but neither Eames nor Arthur liked saying too much over the phone or internet, so there hadn't been much to discuss. Which was interesting, considering the circumstances they had least seen each other under. 

Eames and Arthur had been the only ones without immediate plans after the Fischer job, and had found themselves the last two left at the luggage collection in LAX. Cobb was already off to see his children, and Saito, Ariadne, and Yusuf had all had commitments they had to return to. After some congratulatory jabs at each other, Arthur had invited Eames back to the house he kept in South LA, to continue their celebrations over some vintage Scotch he had gotten as a present after finished another job. Eames was only too happy to accept.

Arthur's place in LA was half a house in Manhattan Beach, up the hill from the shore. It wasn't far from the airport, but was close enough to the ocean that you could see a strip of its dark blueness from the front door, barely, beyond the roofs of other houses and shops in front of it. Eames had been surprised to see how lived in the house looked, after Arthur had unlocked the door and ushered him in, wondering how much time Arthur spent in Los Angeles.

Eames had been about to make a crack about the decor - something like middle-class yuppie meets surfer-boy - when Arthur, who had immediately turned to checking all the locks were in place after getting through the door and placing his suitcase down, grabbed his shoulders and spun him around. He pushed him, not gently, into the wall beside the door, and leaned in close.

'You, Mr. Eames,' he said, so close Eames could smell the peppermint on his breath from the gum he had offered to share in the cab. 'You are the most obnoxious, annoying, and all around insufferable person I have ever willingly shared a dream with more than once.' 

Eames said nothing, slightly bewildered at this turn of events and faintly wondering what had happened to the promised Scotch, as Arthur studied him for a moment. Arthur didn't seem to like this silence, and shoved him against the wall, harder. 'Do you know why I put up with you? Why I willing work with you, even suggest you for jobs?' Eames still didn't answer, and Arthur shoved him again. 'Do you?'

Eames had only opened his mouth for a smart reply, when Arthur - clearly waiting for this - answered for him. 'Because sometimes you're fucking brilliant.' He leaned closer still, his mouth next to Eame's ear. 'And I think its hot when you call me darling.'

Eames smiled, which faltered slightly when Arthur bit his ear gently, before kissing his neck. He couldn't prevent a slight moan from escaping him, before he snaked a hand around Arthur to pull him flush against him. 'Do you now, darling?' he asked, his smile turning cocky when he felt Arthur's erection brush against Eames' growing one.

Arthur turned and kissed him, hard and franticly, and Eames kissed back eagerly. It only took them a few minutes to fall back on the couch just a few feet away, stripping each other's clothes quickly. Their first time, like their kiss, was hard and frantic and Eames really would have expected nothing less after so many years of their particular brand of sniping and flirting.

Eames had spent a little more than a week in Los Angeles - spent on the beach, in dive bars, but mostly naked at Arthur's - when one evening, while laying in a post-coital dazed state on that same couch, Arthur had gotten a phone call that made him pause before answering. He looked at the phone's screen for a second, where there was evidently a number or name Eames could not read, before detangling his limbs from Eames' and standing up from the couch. Still naked, he walked into his bedroom and closed the door. 

Eames watched Arthur, vaguely interested, before allowing his head to collapse back on the couch, his body exhausted after a day spend doing nothing but sitting and walking in the sun. He was only half-awake a few minutes later, when he felt something soft land on his chest.

He opened his eyes to see a bundle of his own clothes on his chest, thrown by Arthur, who was now standing in front of the suitcase he had brought with him out of the bedroom. 'That was Cobb.' Arthur didn't look up as he flicked quickly through some mail on the kitchen counter, before deciding it could all go into the bin. 'Fischer just broke up his company.'

Eames couldn't help the flush of pride that came over him. 'What? When?'

'They just announced it,' Arthur said, turning to a pile of clothes that he had taken out of the dryer earlier, before Eames had busied him with something else. He was just starting to sort through it, throwing things in the direction of the suitcase, when Eames came up behind him, wrapping his arms around him. 

'We should celebrate,' Eames said, nuzzling his neck. 'Get some proper champagne.'

Arthur let Eames kiss at his neck for a moment, before forcing him to drop his arms and turning around to face him. 'No, we need to leave.' Before Eames could answer, Arthur continued, his voice softer. 'We're the most successful people in the dream sharing business right now, which means we're the most wanted. Its not safe for any of us to be together right now, in case anyone gets wind of an actually successful inception.'

He leaned in to kiss Eames again, and Eames accepted it, but he could already feel Arthur stepping back into his point man role. He was still only wearing a pair of trousers, but he might as well have been back in one of his buttoned up suits.

By that evening, Arthur was on a flight to who knows where - he had rather conspicuously not offered this information to Eames, and Eames had decided not to ask - and Eames was boarding the next flight back to Mombasa.

Eames still wasn't sure what was happening between them. After years of doing jobs together and alternatively not being able to stand each other and flirting with each other so overtly Eames had once heard an architect ask Mal how long they had been together, the week in LA had seemed so normal, domestic even. After Arthur decided it was too dangerous for both of them to be there, for both of them to be together anywhere, they had separated amicably. They had talked on the phone a few times since then, mostly business, but not for a few weeks. Eames had been looking forward to seeing him, figuring another week or so of sex would be good, even if nothing came out of it. He wasn't expected a minor panic attack at the sight of him.

Realising his mind was far from the task at hand, Eames blinked, attempting to refocus on the white board in front of him. He was sitting on a cheap office chair, Ariadne in an identical one beside him, with Arthur in front of them, explaining the plan for the dream he had already concocted. Eames struggled to devote his full attention, but whenever he let his mind slip, all he could think about was Arthur. And not in the usual way the American was on his mind - Eames was sure his arse looked as good in that $1000 suit as it did in all of Arthur's others, but Eames couldn't even bring himself to look without feeling mildly sick.

Eames realised his attention had strayed entirely from Arthur's explanations again when he noticed that both Arthur and Ariadne had gone quiet and turned to him. He sat up straighter, trying to look apologetic. 'I'm sorry, what was that?'

Arthur cocked an eyebrow at him, looking decidedly unimpressed at this lack of attention. 'You're the dreamer on the first level. Have you got the basics down yet? Ready for a test run of the architecture?'

Eames nodded several times, trying to look nonchalant. 'Yeah, I'm ready when you lot are.'

Apparently satisfied, Arthur turned back to the whiteboard as Yusuf, removing himself from the impressive makeshift lab on a nearby table, prepared the PASIV device. Ariadne struggled to make herself comfortable in the chair next to Eames, and he followed her lead as he accepted the IV line from Yusuf. Leaning back as much as he could, Eames inserted the needle into his wrist, and was gone before he could count to three.

He was sitting in a coffee shop that looked like a Costa, the building and basic decor based on the drawings and figures Ariadne had just shown him. Arthur and Ariadne were nearby, already sharing a table. Eames walked over to the join them, noting that Ariadne already had a latte in front of her. He nodded at it as he sat down, 'How come it's my dream, and yet you're the one with the fancy drink?'

'The perks of being the architect,' she said smugly. She blew on her drink to cool it, took a sip, then smiled sweetly at Eames. 'Guess you'll have to order one of your own.'

Eames playfully scowled at her, and she laughed, just as Arthur finished flipping through the notebook he carried everywhere, even in dreams, and looked to both of them. 'Okay, the mark comes in here for his coffee every morning. We're going to be very basic here - I want him to run into Nina, the ex-girlfriend we talked about - that'll be you, obviously, Eames. You'll need to find an excuse to leave with him.'

Eames nodded as Arthur continued to lay out their plan. The unease he felt around Arthur wasn't abated in the dreamworld, and Eames pushed his chair back slightly, trying to maintain even such a small distance between them. Still attempting to listen, Eames looked around the coffee shop, trying to keep his mind on the plan and off Arthur. There wasn't much to admire in the architecture here - London Costas all looked alike, with red and brown walls and warm lighting, and Ariadne had gotten that all right, even if it was a knock-off dream version. His subconscious didn't seem to have brought anything interesting into the dream either - no fancy artwork adorned the walls, nor were any interesting costumers revealing anything about his subconscious at the moment.

Eames had been a bit worried about what his subconscious might bring into the dream, although truthfully the decoration of a coffee shop wasn't high on his list of concerns. He hadn't gone under since the kidnapping - at first he had been avoiding it, unsure he wanted to see what might happen, and then he had come to kind of like the freedom of no dreams. Two weeks without dreaming was the longest he had gone in years, and he was, quite frankly, surprised he had been able to go that long. Yusuf had ambushed him at their poker date a few nights ago, demanding to know if he had found another chemist to satisfy his needs. He hadn't believed Eames at first, when he told him that he hadn't been under in so long, and still seemed suspicious, but Eames now thought he had a better idea of why Yusuf almost never dreamed anymore. There was something nice about living your life entirely in the real world, entirely as yourself. He had been getting drunk a lot more lately, on whiskey bottles he'd had stashed in his flat, but he figures those two facts were not related.

Eames wasn't afraid the kidnapping would turn him into Cobb. He wasn't scared one of his projections would suddenly develop a mind of its own and try to kill him at every turn, but he still wasn't sure what would happen. Someone had put him into a dream state he still didn't remember. Maybe he was being a bad team player, waiting to get into the dream state with Ariadne and Arthur in tow before testing it out. At least everything seemed normal so far.

'Almost ready for the next location?' Arthur asked, apparently finished explaining. 'Eames, you're going to be going ahead with Mr. Bennitt, to lead him back to her apartment.'

'Sure,' Eames said, nodding along. He was looking forward to his task for the next afternoon, tailing Nina, the ex-girlfriend, to get a feel of her mannerisms and personality. An afternoon away from Arthur might keep his pulse at a steady rate and prevent his mind from wandering.

'Wait,' Ariadne said, looking over Arthur's shoulder to his notes. 'Before we go, I want to know more about the plan inside the apartment, and whether we're going to need a quicker exit strategy.' 

'I think we'll be fine with what you made so far,' Arthur said, turning back to Ariadne and pointing to something on his notes. 'He should be out for most of the time we're in there anyway - Eames can get him unconscious before we arrive, and if all goes well we can leave him in the same state we found him.'

Ariadne frowned, apparently not satisfied with that answer, and Eames, bored, decided he didn't need to be there for this.

'I'm going to go take a look around outside,' he said, getting up from the table. 'Its been a while since I've been in London in a dream, and even longer since it was built by a non-native.' He glanced at Ariadne, who looked ready to make a defensive remark, but he got there first. 'No worries, pet, I'm sure it's as lovely as the real thing.'

'Don't go far,' Arthur said, his eyes back on something he was scribbling in his notebook. 'We're going to the next location soon.

Eames nodded at him, while cringing a bit at his inability to produce a snappy reply. It was all he could do to talk to Arthur without panicking, getting back to their banter seemed like an insurmountable difficulty.

Leaving the coffee shop - mentally bemoaning that he had never gotten that coffee, which was a real shame because the dream state had the bonus of never having to actually pay for anything - Eames found himself on a typical South London street. He was rather impressed, actually. Although the shops were all chains or generic looking cafés, it could conceivably be any street in trendy South London. You'd never be able to tell Ariadne had spent most of her visit so far locked up in a warehouse working on miniature models.

Eames was idly examining a charity shop, wondering what it could possibly mean that his subconscious had put what he recognised as his ten-year-old best friend's snooker table in the window, when he felt someone walk up behind, and he felt a tinge of nerves.

This only got worse when a gun pressed into his back. 'Don't move,' the projection behind him said, in a heavy Kenyan accent.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

Eames paused. The weight of the gun against the back of his jacket made his heart momentarily speed up, but he reminded himself that he was in a dream - in fact, in _his_ dream - and that, coupled with Eames' forging abilities, meant that there was really nothing to worry about. He could, if he tried hard enough, control most everything that happened here and certainly he could end it all if he wanted with a simple gunshot to the head.

His only concern was that Ariadne and Arthur not see him in such a state, entirely because this would require an explanation Eames didn't really have. With this in mind, Eames ignored the demands of his kidnapper, and spun to face him.

Seeing the gunman for the first time, unfortunately, wasn't helpful. He was dressed entirely in black with a matching balaclava; his clothes gave Eames no idea of what he looked like. Clearly, his subconscious couldn't solve this entire puzzle and reveal who his kidnapper had been. At least from this angle, Eames had a view of the Costa entrance, so he would know if Arthur and Ariadne came out.

That problem sorted, Eames mentally turned back to the gun pressing against his chest. This was rather novel, really. He'd never been kidnapped in a dream before. Maybe his subconscious was trying to show him what had happened in Mombasa. If so, well, that could be useful - if these truly were Eames' projections of his kidnappers, maybe he could get answers by playing along with this little scene.

As if hearing this decision, the gunman jabbed him harshly in the chest, motioning him to start walking. 'Lead the way,' Eames said to the gunman, rather cheerfully. If he came out of this dream with an explanation of what had happened in Mombasa two weeks ago, he would only be better off, and Arthur and Ariadne were surely too deep in conversation about architecture to ever notice his absence.

Eames turned his back on his kidnapper, who then jabbed him sharply in his back, directing Eames down the generic street - away, he noted thankfully - from the coffee shop. He hurried Eames down the street and onto the next one though a series of increasingly sharp jabs, before Eames snapped. 'Enough with the gun-poking!' he said, after one particularly harsh dig. 'I'm going peacefully and entirely of my own freewill, can you please calm down?' There was no answer from the kidnapper, though Eames liked to think the next jab, which directed him around the corner, was slightly more gentle. He was about to yell at him again, this time on behalf of the abused back of his suit, when Eames found himself in front of the same blue van that he could dimly remember driving away from Yusuf's.

'You know,' he said to his kidnappers, now tripled in number, as they pushed him into the back of the van. 'I have to think this isn't how this happened in real life. Because first of all, I could kill all of you. And second - well, its pretty bloody boring, don't you think?'

The kidnappers didn't reply, as another as yet unseen one started driving. There wasn't much in the back of the van that he could potentially use as a weapon of some sort. Fighting the projections wouldn't be worth much of his time, but having a way out - to kill himself - could potentially come in handy.

Eames blinked and found himself out of the van - away from the rope he had noticed and had been trying to think of a way to commit suicide with - and now sitting in a dimly lit, mostly empty room. They had tied him to a metal chair, bound his wrists behind him. 

Eames had a pounding headache that hadn't been there a minute before; perhaps his brain was protecting him from the agony of repeating the beating the men had given him. Judging from his altered vision and the blood he could feel dripping down his face, he was manifesting the injuries, though.

Suddenly Eames was no longer sure working through his kidnapping like this was a good idea, especially since he had no idea how he could kill himself to get out of it.

Eames was just beginning to struggle against the bonds around his wrist, when the door opened, and Arthur walked in. Eames immediately sighed with relief - no matter how uncomfortable he felt around Arthur recently, seeing him was a damn sight beter than another masked man.

'Darling, you're just in time,' he said, but Arthur didn't so much as look at him. Instead, he motioned to the kidnappers; one came up to Eames and started to untie him.

'Oh, you know how to work them?' Eames asked, waiting to be untied. 'Its rather embarrassing to have these projections pop up - but --'

Eames was rudely cut off when another kidnapper gagged him from behind. At that moment, Eames realised that no, this wasn't Arthur. His height was wrong - much too tall, more than the half inch he had on Eames in real life. And his demeanour… Arthur was nothing like this.

And suddenly, Eames remembered everything. Everything. Then he really started to panic.

'No!' Eames tried to yell, the dirty cloth in his mouth. Thankfully, his hands were now untied. He struggled with the two kidnappers trying to keep him in place, but the Arthur-projection - no, that wasn't right, he wasn't a projection of Arthur, he was a projection of a bad forge of Arthur, suddenly it was really important that Eames kept that in mind - whoever he was, he stepped closer.

Thanking God for it, Eames noticed a gun near the waistband of the forged Arthur's trousers. At least the forge was that accurate. After more heated fighting with the still-masked kidnappers, Eames managed to wrench a hand free and desperately grab for the gun.

The forged Arthur, however, saw his intention and stepped out of Eames' grasp easily. 'Oh Eames,' he said, sounding just like - Christ, _just_ like - Arthur. 'So eager?' He gave him a smile of fake sympathy, before punching him in the stomach, hard. Eames fell forward onto his knees, the air knocked out of his lungs. As he struggled to catch his breath, one of the kidnappers kicked him in the side. Eames flailed, trying to hit him even as his vision began to waver, black dots dancing in front of his eyes.

Just as the forged Arthur was pulling his hand back for another shot, the five minutes Yusuf had keyed into the PASIV device ran out and Eames, thank God, woke up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

Eames' eyes flashed open, his heart racing even as his body adjusted to the change between chemically-induced sleeping and consciousness. He desperately grabbed for his totem in his pocket, and felt a wave of relief when he touched it, finding it just the right weight and size. He struggled to stand up, his legs sluggish beneath him, as his panic began to outweigh this momentary relief. Arthur sat beside him, blinking his eyes and adjusting to this same shift in consciousness, and Eames balked at being anywhere near him, even as he realised he was far from the Arthur he was remembering, the one he was actually scared of.

Eames had to get out of the main room, away from Ariadne and her questions and Yufuf's inquisitive gaze, and definitely away from Arthur. He ripped the PASIV's needle out of his wrist hurriedly, and fled.

'Eames?' he heard Arthur call behind him.

He ended back in the same toilet he had been in earlier, worse for wear than previously. He leaned over the sink, his elbows stiff as he held on tightly to the porcelain basin. He felt sick. He looked at himself in the mirror, and actually remembered everything that had happened during his 'warning'. As more and more details flashed through his mind, Eames leaned over and vomited into the sink. 

He brought a hand up to wipe his mouth after he had finished, and noted that it was shaking. Grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser beside him, Eames brought it up to his mouth, just as he heard the door behind him open. He struggled to stand up straight.

'Eames?' Arthur peeked his head into the room, his voice concerned, and Eames' pulse raced even faster. He thrust one of his hands into his pocket again, grabbing his totem, his hand still shaking.

'What happened in there? Where did you go?' Arthur took a step closer with every word, and at first Eames couldn't move, his muscles tense. He knew, somehow, that this was _Arthur_ and he probably wouldn't do anything to hurt him, but he couldn't seem to make his body realise this. Arthur stared at him, and when he took another hesitant step, looking as though he was reaching out to put a hand on Eames' shoulder, Eames snapped.

'Don't touch me.' He grabbed Arthur's arm before it could touch him and pushed him, hard, so that Arthur stumbled back. Eames took this second to move to the far side of the bathroom, pushing his back up against the wall. He shouldn't be scared of Arthur, he knew, and even if he had good reason, he was pretty sure his size and fighting experience meant he could beat Arthur, even if he was military trained. But, even knowing all this, he needed to be as far away from him as possible.

'What the fuck is wrong with you?' Arthur sounded equal parts annoyed and confused. 'Is this about Los Angeles? I can't touch you now?' Eames was saved from replying to such idiocy, and saved from Arthur taking another step closer, when Ariadne entered the toilet. 

Eames felt another bolt of panic as Ariadne stood by Arthur. He just wanted to be alone, wanted Arthur to shut up and fucking leave, and Ariadne not even to start with whatever questions she would inevitably have, and wanted Yusuf not to be waiting for him outside, wanting to share whiskey and some sort of manly talk. He could feel his heart rate rising, his breathing becoming more uneven. Why wouldn't they leave him alone? He didn't owe them any explanation and _why wouldn't Arthur just leave him the fuck alone?_

Eames felt the wall against his back, even as he struggled to get a grip. He could feel Ariadne and Arthur watching him, and Eames would have given anything at that moment to calm down, so they would just stop looking a him like they were. The thought of this, paradoxically, only made his breathing shakier, lighter. 

'Shit, Eames, you're bleeding,' he could dimly hear Ariadne say, and Eames looked down at the blood staining his sleeve. He didn't feel anything. 'He's having a panic attack,' Ariadne was saying to Arthur, as Eames tried to focus on his wrist.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, his eyes still fixed on Eames. 'He doesn't get panic attacks.'

'Yeah, well, I do and this is one,' Ariadne said. Eames saw her step closer, and even though he knew she couldn't do anything to him if she'd wanted, he couldn't stop recoiling slightly. She held her hands out, as if she wanted him to know she was no threat. 'Eames. You have to calm down, you're going to make yourself pass out.'

Arthur grabbed Ariadne by her shoulders and pulled her back, and Eames was absurdly grateful, despite being terrified anytime Arthur looked like he might move closer. 'Look, let me handle this. He already pushed me, I don't want him throwing a punch at your or anything,' he heard Arthur say softly to Ariadne, and Eames wanted to say something, to let them know that he wasn't planning on throwing a punch at anyone, that if he did, it wouldn't be Ariadne. But he was struggling to keep his vision from going black, struggling to get air into his lungs, and Eames closed his eyes, sensing Arthur trying to approach him again.

Eames sagged against the wall, and slid somewhat gracefully to the floor, his head in his hands as he attempted to steady his breathing and regain his vision. He tried to sound somewhat in control as he said in a low voice, 'Arthur, if you get near me I'll kill you.' He watched through his hands as Arthur's black shoes paused, not stepping closer. Eames willed his voice not to shake. 'I'm not fucking kidding, Arthur, get out.'

Eames lost focus for a few moments as he listened to Ariadne and Arthur whisper to each other heatedly. This was embarrassing, and Eames already knew he would be ashamed about this soon, but at the moment he just needed Arthur to leave. Just the thought of him in the room made his heart beat faster, his breath so light that he was seeing black circles in his vision, his eyes still pressed against his hands.

He was struggling to stay conscious when a small hand tentatively touched his shoulder, and a calm voice spoke in his ear. Eames jumped, trying not to strike at the person even as he realised it was Ariadne, and not Arthur.

'Shh, Eames, listen. Its just us now,' she was speaking slowly. 'Arthur left. You're having a panic attack - Arthur says you don't get them, so this might be your first, but they're not a big deal. You just have to take deep breaths and calm down, okay?'

Eames almost laughed, his voice stupidly high and breathy as he managed to say, 'Big deal? I'm dying.'

'Here, look,' Ariadne grabbed one of his hands, forcing it away from his face, and pressed it lightly against her chest. Any other time and Eames would have made a rude comment, but right then it was all he can do to not pull his hand back, as his skin crawled at that little bit of contact. 'Take deep breaths with me, okay?' She took a few, slowly, and Eames could feel her chest rise and fall. He felt his hand shaking against her, but tried to follow her lead.

They sat there for a few minutes, both breathing, until Eames calmed down enough to feel properly embarrassed. He pulled his hand back slowly, while still forcing himself to take the same deep breaths. He was exhausted, all of a sudden, and just wanted to be back, asleep, in his hotel room. 

'Where did you go?' Ariadne asked softly, after a few more minutes of Eames calming down. 'We turned around in the coffee shop and you weren't there all of a sudden. Arthur said you were probably just getting the layout down, but what happened?'

Eames brought his hands back up to rub his forehead, in hopes of abating the headache he knew was coming, when Ariadne grabbed one of them. Eames startled, but she let go when he tensed beneath her hand. 

'Be careful,' she said, motioning to his wrist. 'You're bleeding. I think you need stitches.'

Eames looked down, noticing again the gash from the needle. It did indeed need stitches - this same poor wrist that he had thought was broken just a few weeks ago - and was bleeding rather freely onto his expensive shirt. Fantastic.

'Fuck,' he said, his first words in at least twenty minutes. His voice sounded weird - no longer as panicked as when he was threatening Arthur, but still rough. 

Ariadne started to stand up, making a face as though her knees were protesting at the weird angle she had had them in. 'I'll go get Arthur, he can - '

Eames was shaking his head as soon as she started talking, and interrupted her before she finished. 'It's fine. I'll stitch it myself, it's fine.'

Ariadne tilted her head slightly. 'Its your left wrist. You're left-handed. I'll get Arthur.'

Eames grabbed her hand, pulling her back down before releasing her. He didn't look at her, instead pretending to examine his wrist. 'Its fine.'

Ariadne looked at him for a long moment. She adjusted slightly, so that she was leaning against the wall beside Eames, before asking, 'So. Arthur. What did he have to do with this panic attack?'

'Nothing,' Eames said quickly. He touched his wrist gingerly, remembering the motion from when he woke up in Yusuf's kitchen. 'I don't feel like being fawned over anymore than I already have been, that's all.' He looked at her, smiling slightly as he said, 'Not that I don't appreciate your nursing, love.' Mentally, he nodded - that sounded like him, he was doing this well.

'You've really never had a panic attack before?'

'No. I thought I was probably dying. In my head, I was doling out all my stuff - you could have had my flat in Mombasa if you hadn't stepped in and helped me calm down.'

Ariadne snorted. 'Well, next time I'll know better.' She waited a beat, before trying again. 'So you're telling me this had nothing to do with Arthur? And you threatened to kill him for no reason?'

Eames looked over at her. 'I'd already decided to give all my suits to Arthur. I thought if he knew this, his inner-fashionista would take over and he'd kill me,' he said, completely seriously. Ariadne raised her eyebrows. 'If you don't believe me, you obviously haven't seen how he covets my leather jacket. You'd fear for your life, too.'

Ariadne didn't look at all convinced but stood up and reached a hand down to help Eames up. He brushed it off, gently, standing by himself. He looked toward the sink and made a face. He could see blood on the side, forming a messy handprint, and he was hesitant to look any closer. 'I should, uh, clean up.' He looked to Ariadne, who seemed about to say something. 'Then I'll deal with my wrist, don't worry,' he said, anticipating her complaint.

'Are you sure you're okay now?' Ariadne asked. 'You were pretty freaked out there. You sure you don't want to talk about what happened in the dream?' Eames opened his mouth to brush her off, but Ariadne continued. 'You realise this was a test run for a real job, right? That we're doing in three days? You cannot just pretend to be alright, we don't want another experience like the Fischer one, okay?'

Eames thought this was rather offensive. One bad dream, some bad projections, it was certainly nothing like what Cobb had gotten them all into. As upsetting as this was – and even though Eames suspected it may affect his ability to dream-share for a while – it only affected him, no one else. He grabbed some paper towels from the dispenser and pressed them to his still-bleeding wrist, as he tried to remain calm in front of Ariadne. 'Its nothing like that. It's complicated, but it's fine, okay?' He looked at her, willing her to believe him even though he wasn't sure he was telling the truth. 'This has nothing to do with the job, nothing to do with dreaming, it was just a bad moment, okay?'

Ariadne looked at him for a moment before nodding. 'I'l go tell Yusuf and Arthur you're feeling better.' She walked to the door, stopped. 'If you ever wanna talk - '

'Ariadne, I appreciate this, really, but I will be fine. I'm fairly sure you saved my life in here, and I intend on repaying you in lots of expensive wine, but I promise you I'm fine.' She nodded, but didn't look convinced, and stepped outside.

Eames looked at himself in the mirror for a moment, still pressing the paper towel against his wrist. He looked pale, still, and a bit rough around the edges, but presentable. He looked down at the sink and made a face. He didn't really remember coming into the loo, it was all a bit of a blur, but as gross as cleaning up vomit was, he was glad he had made it out of the main room. Everything that had happened was embarrassing enough, at least he hadn't made any more of a spectacle of himself.

He grabbed a few more paper towels and started to clean up, bracing himself to walk out of the toilet and look at Arthur again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

Yusuf, Ariadne, and Arthur all appeared to be working diligently when Eames reappeared. They didn't even look up, until he cleared his throat. Then they all did at once, looking totally uninterested in him in a way that Eames knew meant Ariadne had told them at least some of what had happened in the toilet. Arthur started to say something, but Eames interrupted him. 'I'm obviously ill. I'm going home. We were going to be done for today anyway, right?'

Arthur ignored most of what he said. He nodded to the blood still on Eames's wrist, and said, in a perfectly calm tone, 'Ariadne said you needed stitches.'

Eames grabbed his wrist, hoping the paper towels he'd shoved into his sleeve weren't saturated with blood yet. 'It's fine.' His heart started to pound at the idea of Arthur touching his wrist. 'Nothing I can't handle.'

Arthur looked at him for a long moment, his face perfectly blank. Eames had the horrible suspicion that he realised how hard Eames was attempting to remain composed. 'We're going to start early tomorrow,' he says finally, turning his gaze to the papers on the table in front of him. 'I'll see you at eight?'

Eames nodded. He knew that now would be a good time to make some joke at Arthur's expense, but he was too tired. He collected his stuff, and fled the warehouse.

\---

Upon reaching his hotel - just a few Tube stops away - Eames didn't bother taking his jacket off or putting his bag down; he immediately dove into the mini-bar. He scanned the small bottles, before grabbing an undoubtedly expensive whiskey, pouring it into a glass, and downing most of it in one go. It didn't stop his hands shaking, but he thought he felt the alcohol starting to circulate through this bloodstream, inevitably soothing things on the way down.

He shrugged his bag off his shoulder, and sat on the bed, still holding the rest of his whiskey. He had to think, even though all he wanted to do right now was get mind-numbingly drunk, he had to sit down and _think._

The dream in the warehouse hadn't filled in all the blanks. He still couldn't remember a lot of what he suspected were the key moments in his kidnapping - how they had gotten him out of his bed, who had done it, all of the important details. He could only remember things that had happened in the room in his dream today - things that had happened with Arthur there, only it _wasn't_ Arthur.

Eames reached for his totem, glad to feel its comforting regularity. He had never been as taken with the ideas of totems as Cobb, Mal, and Arthur had been, but he was glad for it now. He drank the rest of his whiskey, his totem idly resting in his hand, before getting up and grabbing another few bottles. His mind was going a mile a minute, he needed the alcohol to slow it down.

It hadn't been him. It hadn't been Arthur. That was important. It had been a subpar forgery of him, and if Eames had been the forger, no one would have been able to tell the difference. But this forger wasn't as good, and whoever had… done _that_ to Eames, it wasn't Arthur.

Really, it didn't even count. It was a dream. It might have felt real, and obviously his body was having trouble differentiating between dream-real and real-real, but there was a difference. And that was important.

Eames downed another mini-bottle of whiskey, not bothering to pour it into a glass.

He couldn't let anyone know. That was the main thing. The second thing was finding out who had done this and _why_ but the first thing was hiding it from everyone. From Yusuf, Ariadne, and oh God, from Arthur.

Even with the thought of his name, Eames flashed back to the dream. Arthur, looking just like himself, leaning over Eames. Arthur, ordering those masked minions to strip Eames naked, kicking him in the ribs repeatedly, until Eames could feel multiple fractures. Arthur, pulling him up so he was on all fours, bending over him from behind --

Eames closed his eyes, the memory making him gag on the flavour of alcohol in his mouth. Oh God - how could he ever work with Arthur again or even _look_ at him?

He grasped his totem harder, the poker chip's sides pressing into his hand. This was real, this was what mattered. 

He brought his hands up to his face, momentarily forgetting his bloody sleeve and wrist. He caught himself just before he could smear the blood any further. He looked at the gash closely, a C-shaped gouge from ripping the PASIV needle out sloppily. It really did need stitches, but there was no way Eames was going to get them from either Arthur or any hospital in London. He stood up, glad to have a task to concentrate on, and unzipped his bag, grabbing the first aid kit he carried around for just such minor emergencies. 

He paused, looking at the gauze, scissors, and superglue that would take care of his wrist. Before he did this, he needed a shower. He needed a hot shower, that would help calm his mind and put his thoughts back in control. He needed to take a shower, then fix his wrist, and he needed more alcohol, and then he would be fine. 

Glad to have a plan, he held some gauze on his wrist loosely, grabbed some more alcohol from the fridge, and headed into the bathroom.  
\---

It was about forty-five minutes later, after Eames finished a very long and very hot shower, had taken care of his wrist as best he could, and had also finished an additional bottle of whiskey and one of subpar gin, when there was a knock at his hotel room door. He froze. Fuck. No one was supposed to know where he was staying, which of course meant that Arthur knew where he was staying. Eames stayed perfectly still, hoping that whoever it was ( _Arthur_ his mind insisted) would go away if he thought the room was empty.

No such luck. There was another knock and, a second later, what was unmistakably Arthur's voice. 'Eames. I know you're in there.'

He was bluffing, probably, but Eames wouldn't put it over Arthur to have inserted a tracking chip into his phone or clothes or, fuck who knew where else - Arthur had always been very protective of his team, and he took this task even more seriously now that he was the extractor, and not the mere point man. Eames took a deep breath, grabbed the first shirt he could put his hands on, and went to the door. He waited a moment, slipping into a bored expression as he opened the door.

'Eames.' Arthur, looking as cool and collected as always, was still in his suit from earlier, and Eames now wore an old football shirt and sweatpants, and undoubtedly smelled of alcohol despite his shower. He stood up straighter.

'Arthur,' Eames answered him, his voice giving nothing away. 'Sorry, was just having a shower.'

'Feeling better?' Arthur's voice and manner, as always, remained inscrutable.

'I feel fine, darling, thank you for the personal visit.' 

Such visits from Arthur after finishing with the team for the day weren't rare. Arthur had often come to Eames' hotel room before when they worked together, most often to discuss, in fine detail, some aspect of the job. Sometimes it resulted in Eames convincing Arthur that what he needed was a night at a pub or bar, which Eames always considered a victory - even though he strongly suspected that on most nights that managed to work, Arthur had come to his room only with the pretence of having any job-related conversation. 

He feared this was such a night. Arthur wasn't immediately jumping into discussion about the job, nor was he handing Eames piles of folders to help analyse research. He was here not to discuss the job, but to check up on Eames and - possibly - continue whatever had happened after the Fischer job.

Fuck. The thing was, Eames liked Arthur, he liked their after-work nights in or out, and he really liked whatever had happened with them in LA. He had worked for so long, over so many jobs, to crack the walls that Arthur kept up all the time, to get under his skin in ways that weren't just annoyance, and now he was messing it all up over some stupid dream that hadn't even involved Arthur, not properly.

But shit, there it was again, the memory of the dream causing Eames to feel suddenly hot, his mouth dry, and his heart speeding up. He got a flash of Arthur - looking just as he did now, innocently standing in the hallway - leaning over him and forcing him -- Eames turned away and took a deep breath. He had to stay together.

Eames set his jaw and faked a yawn. 'I'm terribly tired and jet lagged though, love, and I'm afraid if we're starting so early tomorrow I can't stay awake talking to you.'

Arthur, naturally, didn't react to this at all. 'Of course,' he said, after a split second's hesitation. 'I just wanted to check in on you. Make sure everything was okay from earlier.' Eames nodded curtly as a dismissal, but Arthur paused, not leaving. He wanted to say more, Eames could tell, but didn't. They were both silent for a moment, Arthur looking down the hall as if knowing he should leave, but not moving. Eames just wanted this over, and suddenly didn't care how it ended - Arthur could blame whatever happened on residual awkwardness from their tryst together, and that was fine.

Eames was about to close the door, unsure how else to end the night, when Arthur said suddenly, as if he had just remembered, 'Oh, and I wanted to check your wrist. Ariadne said it was your left wrist, I thought you might need some help patching it up.'

Eames stiffened at this, at the thought of Arthur touching him. Blocking the entry into his hotel room slightly, Eames shook his head. 'I took care of it already, its fine.'

There was another awkward pause as Eames thought _everything will be fine as long as Arthur keeps pretending he doesn't notice anything's wrong_ and Arthur's eyes scanned Eames, catching on the gauze wrapped around his wrist, obviously deciding what to do. Eventually he must have decided to drop it, because he turned to leave. 'Eight tomorrow, then?'

'Right, eight, yeah.'

Arthur turned to look at him one more time, but Eames pretended not to notice and closed the door.

He learned against the closed door for a moment, taking a deep breath. It was only when he went to the mini-bar again, seeking more of _anything_ , that he noticed that his entire body was shaking. He hoped to God Arthur hadn't seen it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

Eames finished the job - barely - and if anyone had the gall to ever call him unprofessional again (a word that often seemed to come up when reviewing Eames' work), Eames would hit him, somewhere where it hurt. He'd wanted nothing more than to run back to Mombasa – or, fuck, anywhere – from the moment he'd woken up the day after Arthur's visit to his hotel room, and yet he'd sucked it up and finished the job. Eames was weirdly proud of himself for that; he deserved credit for being professional enough not to leave Arthur without a forger.

That said, it certainly hadn't ended up being the tidiest or neatest job - he'd been late to the warehouse every morning, often still reeking of the alcohol he had been using to fall asleep, and he knew they had noticed. He avoided everyone, and snapped at Ariadne and Yusuf every day, but he stayed together and showed up, and that was what mattered.

He'd learned to control himself around Arthur. He avoided talking to him whenever possible, avoided being alone with him entirely, but didn't have to run away to the washroom to be sick any other times. Arthur responded by coldly stepping back, not engaging him in anything other than completely professional talk. He'd stayed away, and given Eames room and Eames was grateful for it.

So he was quite surprised when he came back to his hotel room after finishing the job, successfully of course, and found Arthur waiting for him.

Clearly, the time he had taken saying terse goodbyes to Ariadne and Yusuf and stopping in the corner store had given Arthur the opportunity to break into his hotel room. Lounging casually on the bed, Arthur was idly flipping the channels on the television Eames had never bothered to turn on. Just to make sure, Eames felt for the poker chip in his pocket. He was relieved to feel its familiar wait and size. At least he was dealing with the real Arthur.

For the first time since the job began, Eames was not overcome with the overwhelming need to flee when he saw him. No, now his heart was pounding for another reason, and he found his hands clenched into fists. He stalked over to the bed. How dare Arthur intrude on his space like this? 

'What the fuck are you doing here?' he asked, his tone low. He dropped the bag from the off-license with a dull thud and grabbed the remote control from Arthur's grasp. 'How did you get in here?'

Arthur looked mildly surprised at the remote ripped out of his hands, but his otherwise unflappable ability to keep calm only pissed Eames off more. 'Oh come on now, Eames,' he said, his voice cocky. 'Surely you must know that no hotel room lock can stop me.' Eames turned his back under the guise of turning off the TV, struggling to remain calm. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do more - run from the room or punch Arthur in the face. Even amidst his sudden anger, he almost felt relief - anger was an emotion he was familiar with. 

'Bad time?' Arthur asked, standing from the bed, and Eames knew that he was taunting him on purpose.

'Get out,' Eames said immediately, spinning to face him.

Arthur's demeanour actually did change at this; he looked mildly surprised. He held up his hands. 'Whoa, Eames, look - I don't know why you're pissed at me, but can we talk about this like adults? This job hasn't been the smoothest operation and I'd like to figure out a way we can keep working together.'

Eames turned away from him, reaching to pick up the bag he had dropped upon arrival, the contents of his dinner: some sweets, crisps, and more whiskey, the hotel room's supply extinguished the night before. He was relieved to see his paltry meal, and more important the whiskey, had survived the fall. 'There's nothing to talk about, except perhaps why you bloody broke into my hotel room to have some sort of bonding time, and I'd really rather you get out.'

Arthur's voice had a hint of irritation in it this time, and if this had happened a few weeks ago, Eames knew he would have considered such a minor show of emotion a victory. 'I always knew you weren't the most mature one, Eames, but I had no idea fucking you would turn you into such girl that it would affect our working relationship. You haven't been able to say more than two words to me this entire time, and that show of threatening to kill me when you freaked out in the bathroom? What the fuck is going on?'

Eames almost laughed. He was standing there, trying to focus on what flavour of crisps was in his shopping bag just to keep the rising panic of being alone in a room with Arthur out of his head, and Arthur thought all of this was some reaction to their sleeping together? 

'This has nothing to do with us sleeping together, _darling_ , but much more to do with the fact that I want nothing to do with you and I have no idea why you've broken some minor laws just to hear me say that.' Eames hadn't meant to blurt out the pet name, and he saw something cold flash across Arthur's face at the word. He turned around, under the pretence of putting the bag, its contents hidden from Arthur's eyes, on the table beside the TV. He was rifling through it slowly, feigning great interest in its contents, when he felt Arthur's grip on his upper arm, trying to force him to turn around. Eames wasn't ready for it, for Arthur getting that close, and _touching_ him, and the next thing he knew he'd turned around to face Arthur and he didn't think at all before punching him in the face.

He vaguely heard Arthur make a painful, surprised noise as he stumbled back a step, but Eames was remembering the first thing Arthur - no, not Arthur - the forger had done in his dream, which was sock him in the stomach, and before he could think it through, could get back to himself and realise that _was not Arthur_ , he'd slammed his first into Arthur's jaw again, harder.

Eames couldn't think straight, couldn't get his mind to work, and before he could even sort out what he'd just done, Arthur had him spun him around, his face slammed into the wall and his arms yanked behind his back. Arthur's body was pressed fully against him, forcing him still without hurting him, but all Eames could feel was his inability to move and the solid pressure of Arthur pinning him down.

'Get off me!' he grunted, not registering whatever Arthur was hissing in his ear. He desperately tried to pull his hands out of Arthur's reach, thrashing his body in an attempt to get free as he remembered the panic of having his hands tied behind his back, the claustrophobia of Arthur's weight against him. Arthur held on tighter, still speaking to him, but Eames was too far gone to hear him - he could only see the other Arthur, feel him against him, and he felt the panic rising in his throat. He struggled for a few more minutes, trying to slam his shoulders into Arthur, to make him let go, but in the end, Arthur's clear head and military training won out and Eames was stuck. He slumped forward, realising this, even as his brain was whirring at twice the speed it usually did. His forehead against the wall, he closed his eyes and managed to take a deep breath. 

'What the fuck?' Arthur was saying when Eames could focus again. He sounded angrier than Eames had ever heard him. 

Eames took another deep breath, calming himself down as best he could in such a position, and tried to break free from Arthur one more time. Arthur must have realised Eames was more in control, because he let go, and Eames spun around to face him.

Arthur's lower lip was bleeding, slightly, and had a red mark on his cheek, but mostly he looked furious. They stood there looking at each other for a long moment, Eames taking deep, shaky inhales, and Arthur staring at him murderously.

Arthur finally spoke, breaking the near silence of Eames' raspy breaths. 'Are you fucking serious with this?'

'Get out.' Eames looked him dead in the eye. He didn't care that this was the real Arthur and not the one he remembered from his dream, he couldn't deal with either of them right now.

Arthur looked ready to argue, but instead let out a sigh, before turning to grab his briefcase by the bed. He walked to the door and looked back at Eames, who had not moved. 'You are a magnificent bastard, Mr. Eames,' he said. 'And I have no idea what the fuck is going on with you.'

He left, slamming the door behind him, and Eames closed his eyes, his body sagging slightly against the hotel room's wall. He shot back up, after a minute, and went to the door - slamming the lock and pulling the chain, so that even someone with a key - or a key-picking kit - couldn't get in.

That finished, he stood with his forehead against the door for a moment. _Fuck_. Eames had no idea what to do, what he was supposed to do, if he could do anything. 

The worst part about all of this was that in between being terrified of him and wanting to kill him, Eames still felt the same way he had towards Arthur for years - he still liked him, still wanted to be his friend and work with him and… He had a sudden flash of Arthur on the beach in Los Angeles, laughing at something stupid Eames had said, looking happy and relaxed and Eames wished this was how he could remember him when he saw him, and not as the fake that had invaded his mind.

Eames slammed his head against the door as hard as he could, frustrated that it didn't hurt more or clear his head, before heading back to his newly purchased whiskey. He knew two things for sure: after all those years of jobs taken just to be close to Arthur, he could never be near him again. And he was going to find whoever did this to him and make him pay for it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

'Who are you?' Eames was naked, on his knees, his words muddled by his face being pushed into the concrete floor in front of him. He struggled against the concrete, trying to turn his face to the side to spare his already bleeding nose, to be able to get air into his bloody mouth.

Arthur's voice spoke from behind him, mocking. 'Oh Mr. Eames, I'm quite sure you know who I am.'

Eames grunted in pain, but struggled to not cry out as Arthur grabbed the back of his head tighter and slammed it harder into the ground, not wanting to give him any more satisfaction. He was breathing heavily when Arthur let up after a moment, but still managed to speak. 'You're a forge; who are you really?'

Arthur laughed. 'Am I? Are you sure?'

Eames jerked awake. He gasped for breath, still feeling the cold concrete against his face, his own blood smeared on his cheeks, the hand pushing his head down, even as he realised he was in his bedroom, alone. He grabbed for the totem on his bedside table, and felt his heart race even faster when he couldn't feel it right away. Turning on a light beside him, he saw that the poker chip had fallen to the floor. He grabbed for it desperately, flinching away from the bright light, and fisted it tightly, feeling the weight, the size, the specific grooves he was used to. 

Bloody fuck. Eames closed his eyes, his totem still in his hands. He was awake now. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He was getting used to these nightmares, was having them most nights, but lately they were getting worse, more vivid.

He had been dream sharing for far too long to still dream without the aid of drugs, usually. But after three weeks off Somnacin, he was surprised to find that these horrific nightmares had broken through this barrier. He'd heard of dreams based on strong emotions coming back to dreamers when they left the dream sharing community, had even joked with Yusuf about whether this included wet dreams, but had never experienced it first hand.

He was awake now, despite - Eames checked his wristwatch - bugger, only four hours sleep; he sat up, running his hand over his eyes. He'd been having variations of this dream, variations of that _memory,_ almost every night for two weeks. He was fucking tired.

Eames had cancelled the job he had tentatively planned after London. He hadn't needed the pay cheque, and he hadn't needed another job spent looking over his shoulder, worried constantly that something - a flash of a blue van, a figure wearing a balaclava - would give his whole game away. He'd come back to Mombasa instead, back to the flat that felt more like home than London ever did (especially with the new security system he'd installed), and avoided the entire dream-sharing scene, including Yusuf. He'd spent his time practicing his art of forging poker chips and cards, a welcome relief from forging identities and personalities.

But he couldn't hide from dreams, dream sharing, or even Yusuf forever. He'd been dodging phone calls from people who were sure to offer him jobs, and while he didn't need the money, Eames missed dreaming. And perhaps more importantly, he missed having dreams he was able to control.

Eames sighed with frustration at his insomnia, as he kicked the blanket off his legs and stood up. He'd have a cup of tea, and maybe then he could try to go back to sleep, if it wasn't too light out. He shuffled into the main room of his flat and filled the kettle, flipping the overhead fan on as he walked past. He carried his totem with him, keeping the poker chip in his hand even while getting the milk and sugar.

He had to find out who had done this to him. Who had taken him and done _that_ to him and ruined so much for him and - fuck, made it so he couldn't even sleep. Eames fell onto his couch as he waited for the kettle to boil, eyeing the empty bottles of beer and glasses littering the table in front of him. He had to get back to work and to do that, he had to find out who had done this to him so he could make sure they had properly paid for it - and so these damn dreams would go away.

And to do so, he needed Yusuf.

\---

Eames' head was pounding, mostly likely from lack of sleep and over-reliance on caffeine, but he managed a half-hearted smile at the boy, one of Yusuf's lackeys, who led him into one of the rooms in Yusuf's lab. Yusuf was hard at work, but he looked up when they entered. He looked faintly surprised to see Eames, but grinned at him and paused his work.

'Mr. Eames.' Yusuf put down his instrument, taking off a pair of magnifying glasses. 'I've been hearing some rumours about you.'

Eames stiffened even as he attempted to play it cool, idly picking up a vial of amber liquid and squinting at the label. 'Oh?'

Yusuf smoothly took the vial from Eames and put it back where it had been. 'I heard there was an English gentlemen on a bit of a roll at your favourite casino the other night. The description was a bit familiar.'

'Hm, really?' Eames managed to smile cockily, relieved that this was the only rumour Yusuf had heard and that it was unconnected to the dream sharing world. 'Well, my mum's Welsh, so I'm a British bloke, aren't I? Doesn't sound too familiar, this English guy.'

Yusuf began to put away the instruments and chemicals in front of him, a somewhat complicated process. 'Of course, the intricacies of nationalism,' he said, without looking up. 'How was the Sinclair job, by the way?'

'Hm, yeah, funny story that - couldn't be bothered with it, in the end,' Eames spoke casually, regretting ever having bothered to give Yusuf even a brief layout of his plans. 'I've been taking a bit of a break the last few weeks, enjoying forging of the old-fashioned type.'

Pausing in his cleanup, Yusuf quirked an eyebrow at Eames. 'Becoming more of a slacker in your old age? Wasn't it just an easy job, the Sinclair gig? You certainly didn't seem fussed about it before London.'

Eames shrugged, still trying to exude casualness. 'Hey, can't a man take a holiday? I'm a hard worker, as you well know. Besides - it was in _Russia_ ,' he raised his eyebrows meaningfully. Yusuf looked vaguely confused, which Eames considered a victory - better confused than questioning.

'So where have you been then?' Yusuf asked, turning back to the clutter on his desk. If it had been anyone other than Yusuf, Eames wouldn't have bothered to answer.

'Oh, you know me - world traveller type. I've been all around,' he said vaguely; honesty was never the best policy.

'I certainly hope whatever holiday you had left you in a better mood than you were in London. You were a real peach for that whole job.'

Eames rolled his eyes and waved a hand, dismissing Yusuf's complaint. 'I hate being back in England. I think it's the Welsh in me. Anyway, the job got done. We never did celebrate it, in fact… you up for something now?'

Yusuf closed one final box full of mysterious compounds and ingredients with a click, and looked to Eames. 'I could be persuaded.'

'Good. Because I brought your favourite whiskey, and I need a bit of a favour.'

Raising an eyebrow, Yusuf smiled. 'Bring on the celebrations.'

\---

They ended up back at Yusuf's, grabbing some food on the way, and a few bottles of beer. Yusuf chatted most of the way across the city, retelling a story he had been told about a mutual acquaintance of their's, one of the questionable figures involved in their line of business. It was stupid and silly, and Eames found himself enjoying it immensely.

'So they wake up and the mark had pissed himself!' Yusuf, having obviously repeated this story several times, still couldn't make it to this point without laughing, and Eames joined in. 'They spent hours trying to figure out how to stop the flooding, and this guy was just sitting in a cold pool of his own piss the whole time!'

Neither brought up their last job or Eames' requested favour until they were settled in Yusuf's flat, each with a bottle of beer in hand, their dinners eaten.

'So, a favour, huh?' Yusuf said, leaning back into his couch. 'Why am I not surprised that the first time I see you in a month is because you need something from me?'

Eames feigned an expression of great hurt, wrinkling his forehead with mock concern. 'Yusuf, you're one of the few people I genuinely enjoy spending time with. It's not my fault you are also one of the many people I often want things from. Plus, I bought you alcohol.'

Yusuf raised his bottle of beer, toasting Eames. 'Too true. Ask away then.'

'I need all the details you can give me about the van and guys who dropped me off at your house that night.'

Yusuf looked faintly surprised at this request. 'I've told you everything I know. It's not as though I'm keeping anything from you. They weren't too big on details when they dropped you in front of me - with rather large guns pointed at me, I might add.'

'Yeah, I get that - but I need to know _anything_ you remember, anything you can tell me about them that you might not have mentioned before.'

Yusuf shrugged. 'Guns. Blue van. Balaclavas. Did I mention guns?'

Eames sighed, taking a sip of his drink. Bloody hell, he had no idea what he thought he was going to get out of Yusuf - didn't even know what questions might be helpful, really - but he hadn't known where else to start.

'So did your kidnapping and this sudden interesting in finding the perpetrators have anything to do with your… episode in London?' Yusuf asked after a moment. Even though Eames knew Yusuf was too smart, that he would never have been able to get any questions past him without Yusuf realising what he was doing, Eames still felt a shot of annoyance at being so transparent.

'Kidnapping is such a strong word,' he said, dodging the question while he could. 

'Yes, there are so many other terms for someone taking you to a location against your will, beating you up over two days, and then dumping you on my doorstep.' Yusuf's tone was dry.

'Exactly,' Eames pretended to think for a moment. 'Vacation pops to mind, of course. Holiday. Get away.'

Yusuf rolled his eyes. 'I've only had two drinks, Eames, I'm not yet drunk enough for you to avoid the question without me noticing.'

'Yes,' Eames said after a moment's pause. 'I suppose it did have something to do with it.' Yusuf looked up after he didn't elaborate, and Eames realised this was already getting more complicated, and more personal, than he had originally planned. He took a quick sip of his drink for fortitude, before leaning forward, attempting to regain control of the conversation.

'I wasn't entirely honest with you about all the details.' He ignored the look of fake shock Yusuf sends his way. 'Whatever warning those masked men yelled at you about --'

Yusuf interrupted. 'Can we call them "masked men carrying guns pointed at my face?" I think it better conveys the gravity of the situation.'

Eames rolled his eyes, but amended his sentence. 'Whatever warning those masked men _carrying guns pointed at your face_ yelled at you about had something to do with dreams.'

Taking a slow sip of his drink, Yusuf thought about this. 'I can't say I'm surprised,' he said, after a moment. 'You have better gambler friends who could have found you on their doorsteps if it was just some debt. So. It involved dreams. How so?'

Eames hesitated, afraid of just such a question. He had already decided exactly what to tell Yusuf, and _precisely_ what details to leave out, but he still felt a trill of nerves. 'I'm… not entirely clear on the details. They took me into a dream state, and…' he swallowed, willing his voice to sound normal. 'Well, there wasn't a lot of talking.' He got a flash of Arthur/not-Arthur forcing him onto his knees, prying his mouth open, and before he could get any more lost in the memory, he took a large gulp of his beer, concentrating fiercely on its coldness.

Yusuf, thank God, didn't pick up on his discomfort - or if he did, probably summed it up to reliving a bad beating, but nothing else. 'Not a very effective warning then.'

Eames blinked, once again bringing his focus back to the current conversation. 'What?'

'Not a very effective warning,' Yusuf repeated. 'I mean, surely the point of a warning is to tell you not to do something again - or to _do_ something again - but just beating you up. Not a great warning.'

'It was… pretty effective actually,' Eames admitted, slowly, leaning back on the couch. 'I'm just not sure entirely what I'm warned against.' _Except Arthur_. Eames took a deep breath, eyeing the whiskey on the table and wondering how long until he could dive into the bottle.

'So, they had you under for the _two days_ you were gone?' Yusuf asked, as Eames downed the last of his beer.

'No - that's part of what I don't get, actually,' Eames said, glad to have someone with whom he could discuss this aspect. 'I was gone for almost 48 hours, but there's no way I was under for that long. There's no way I _could_ have been under that long - I'm not stupid, my dreams are fully militarised and there's no way anyone could survive in there for that long. I'm still not sure how they managed to get me at all. From what I can figure, they basically kidnapped me within the dream - my projections should never have allowed them to do that, to even get close to doing that.'

Yusuf's eyes narrowed. 'And you have no idea who did this to you?'

Eames shrugged. 'I'm not exactly without enemies.'

'But it had to be someone in the dream-sharing business, someone who has a grudge against you,' Yusuf prompted.

'That doesn't narrow it down extraordinarily usefully - or it could also be anyone willing to be hired to beat me up. Its looking like a long list.'

Yusuf was silent for a minute, thinking. Eames could only hear the whirr of the overhead fan going lazily around and he focused on it, considered again pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

'There's some talk -' Yusuf stopped himself. He looked up at Eames. 'There's a Scandinavian chemist I'm aware of. She's experimental, but not as smart as she thinks she is. There's rumours that she's working on some mixture that placates any projections in the dream state.'

Eames leaned forward again, closer to Yusuf. 'I'd not heard of this.'

'Yeah, well - don't tell anyone either. In my opinion, it's bollocks - there's no way that dreaming would be what it is without the projections, no matter how annoying they can be.' He paused for a second. 'Or how trigger-happy.'

Eames frowned, giving into temptation and reaching for the whiskey and one of the empty glasses beside it. 'What would be the point? Extraction - fuck, inception - they can't be done without projections. What, it's for recreational usage, like those sleepers locked in your basement? Why would you want to be an in empty dreamstate?'

'It's not empty,' Yusuf corrected him. He paused again. 'Look, you have to understand this is all second hand, theoretical stuff. I have no idea what she's actually doing, if she's doing anything besides talking about this --'

'Yeah, yeah, I get that,' Eames interrupted, wanting Yusuf to go on.

'As I understand it, the projections are still there, just more docile - useful, I suppose, if you wanted to do a basic extraction that required no finesse, left evidence behind, maybe fucked with the person's head more than normal, but what it would be really used for is --'

'Militarization. It would effectively destroy it.'

'Right,' Yusuf sat back, took another sip of his beer. 'I don't think it's possible, and I don't think it's a good idea - that sort of thing can leave permanent marks, that's messing with the subconscious in ways that the drugs shouldn't be doing. But this chemist, supposedly she's trying to do just that - and getting close.'

'Okay, but what are the odds that was used on me, and not some sort of old-fashioned, fight them all off type of game?' Eames asked. He searched his memory. 'I don't remember any bad beef with a Scandinavian chemist, if she even has this drug at all.'

'The only reason I mention it - and I mention it just as an option, possibly - is the compound's main side effect. The theory is based on slowing down the dreamer while anyone sharing the dream is less affected - meaning projections are more sloppy, can be downright halted or essentially frozen.' Eames nodded when Yusuf stopped here, prompting him to go on. 

'It's the timing,' he finally said, putting his drink down on the table in front of him and studying Eames. 'The theory goes that any compound that does this would seriously mess with the dream time, meaning that it could actually work the opposite of how we know it - decelerate the dreamer's brain functions instead of accelerating them, meaning more time in the real world being less time in the dreams. It's why it's terribly dangerous - there's no way to understand that, its going against what the dreams naturally do, its --'

Eames interrupted him, his tone flat. 'So someone could be gone for two days in the real world, but with this compound… they'd be in the dream state for, what, half of that time? With effectively destroyed militarization?'

Yusuf shrugged and seemed almost apologetic he had brought any of this to Eames' attention. 'In theory. And rumour.'

Eames played with the glass in his hand, swirled the drink around. He digested this information slowly, thinking. He looked at Yusuf after a long minute, his tone serious, dangerous. 'I need all the information you have - all the information you can _get_ \- on this compound, this theory, and this chemist - and anyone, _anyone_ , who could be working with them.'

Yusuf nodded. 'Of course.'


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

Yusuf couldn't get him much. What he could get was the chemist's name - Sanja Ekroth - and some of the names, or at least pseudonyms, of extractors, architects, forgers, and other members of the dream-sharing community who had worked with her. None of this was immediately helpful, but did give Eames somewhere to start.

Eames had never worked with any of them. He didn't recognise most names, and couldn't think of why any of them would have a grudge against him. It was possible that someone outside the dream-sharing community had hired someone to torture Eames - he had quite a few enemies and there was more than one bounty on his head, most of which had to do with the victims of dream-sharing (or its failures), and not people within the business - but… what they had done, that was _personal._ And forging Arthur to do it? Whoever had orchestrated this had to know him, had to have a personal vendetta against him.

And none of the names on this list seemed to fit that bill.

Eames rubbed at his eyes, getting a headache from sitting in the dark with only his laptop's glow for light. He had been sitting on his couch for hours, through dusk, trying to get all the information he could on someone called 'The Trapper' ( _Really?_ was Eames' only thought when first seeing the name), one of the extractors on the list. He wasn't used to this. Eames had done research for jobs in the past, but it had never been his main role. He wasn't as good at hacking into emails and files as others, and Eames couldn't help but think that Arthur and his skills would be very helpful right now.

He decided a drink would be a help. And maybe some overhead lights. Eames stood up, placing his laptop on the table in front of the couch, and turned on a light. He walked into the kitchen, intent on grabbing a beer, when he heard his phone ringing.

Not many people had this number. Eames wasn't paranoid, but he also wasn't stupid - having a mobile was a necessity in the dream-sharing business, but giving out your number wasn't a great idea. It was most likely Yusuf, wanting to know how he was doing on the research.

He idly glanced at the screen, heading back for that beer. He was expecting a picture of Yusuf - a very flattering drunken photo taken on a late-night adventure a year back. He wasn't expecting the number and name that did pop up, and Eames actually dropped the phone upon seeing it.

Fuck.

Arthur was calling and Eames was not ready for this right now.

He stood perfectly still for a moment, his mobile still ringing at his feet, as if Arthur could see him and might give up if he didn't move. It was only half a second, however, before he felt faintly embarrassed at his reaction. He picked up the phone again, and took it with him to the couch, his beer forgotten.

It stopped ringing. His voicemail must have kicked in.

Eames waited, still watching the phone. After it didn't ring for another minute, he put it beside him and leaned forward, his head in his hands.

The heat of anxiety crawled up his spine as he took deep breaths. It was ridiculous to be this upset just by seeing his number on his phone. Eames closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing, his head still in his hands. He was acting like a baby, like a stupid child, and this was ridiculous. It was one thing to get nervous when he saw Arthur in person - it was still stupid, but he couldn't control that. He couldn't stop memories, even if they were false memories, from reminding him of what Arthur could do. But this? Eames could not be scared of a phone, that was just idiotic.

He took another fortifying breath, deciding that he would ignore the call and get back to his research. He could forget this, it didn't matter. Then his phone started ringing again.

'Bloody motherfucker!' Eames didn't usually talk to himself, but then, he wasn't usually terrorised by mobiles.

He grabbed his phone again - same number of course. 'Fucking hell,' he said aloud. He couldn't deal with this right now. Eames dropped the phone again, slammed his laptop shut on the table, and stood up. He needed a drink, and he needed to be away from his flat and away from that bloody phone. He grabbed his wallet and keys and left, leaving his mobile behind.

\--

Eames almost managed to drink away the memory of who had been calling, which was quite a feat and involved a substantial amount of alcohol. He woke up a few hours after going out, the sound of his phone ringing bringing him out of his stupor abruptly. He was on the couch of his flat, a now half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him, and his head and stomach letting him know that, yes, he had been the one to drink all that.

Groaning softly at the bit of light coming in through the windows - Eames didn't know if that made it dusk or morning - he struggled to find his phone. It stopped ringing, and he considered giving up, before he heard the noise of an incoming text message from his right. He grabbed his phone, half hidden beneath the couch, and squinted at the screen. Three missed calls and a text message. All the calls were from Arthur, Eames didn't check the message. Great. Bloody brilliant.

Eames let his head fall back to the couch, the hand holding his phone go lax beside him. He had only gotten back to his flat a few hours ago, according to the time on his mobile and what little memory he had, and had apparently had enough time to drink more whisky, alone, after doing so. He could afford a little more sleep.

\--

The next time Eames opened his eyes, it was light - too light. He groaned as he shielded his eyes with his forearm, the sun coming in from the window worsening his already pounding head. It took him a few seconds to orient himself, to remember why he was on his couch and not in bed, why his mouth tasted the way it did, why his entire body ached. Why his phone was on the floor beside him, evidently having fallen out of his hand when he slept.

Deciding to get it over with, he fumbled for his phone and, squinting at the brightness, opened the text message waiting for him.

_still angry?_

Eames considered this. _Yes._ He decided that was not an adequate reply, however, and got straight to the point, hoping this entire thing could be ended quickly.

_What do you want, Arthur?_

Eames found himself hoping that, wherever Arthur was, it was nighttime and he was asleep. Or he was hard at work at some job, or he was eating dinner with an important client, or he was fucking some ridiculously hot guy - Eames _did not care_ as long as he didn't take his text as an invitation to call.

Eames steadfastly ignored the hazy feelings of sickness he had thinking, however vaguely, of Arthur fucking another guy. Blaming his sudden sour stomach on whatever shit he had drunk last night, Eames let his head fall back on the couch, intent on sleeping some more. 

Arthur was evidently doing none of those things, however, or considered Eames' text more important than those if he was. It was only a few minutes later, Eames not yet back asleep, when his phone dinged.

Eames paused a second before opening the new message. 

_i want you for a job_

He was surprised, really, that Arthur would even offer after what happened in London Arthur was well respected, even more so now that he had stepped into the role of extractor; he had no shortage of talented people to work with. Eames was the best, he knew that, and Arthur's go-to - and they had worked together enough times that they had become something of a duo - but he had expected Arthur's pride to win out over professionalism.

Eames' mind flashed to Cobb, to how unhinged he had become by the end of the Fischer job. Maybe Arthur wasn't always the best at knowing when to stop collaborating with people.

Eames intended to make this easier for him, however, by making this decision on Arthur's behalf. He typed, _I don't need a job._ Clicked send.

Arthur was clearly waiting by his phone, because there barely seemed enough time to have read the message and typed one back before --

_you'll want this one_

Eames' anxiety had faded significantly since he had initially seen Arthur's name on the 'from' line of his phone. Despite this, it wasn't a good idea to keep talking to him; he didn't want to - no, couldn't work with Arthur again, no matter how interesting the job. But… he was curious. He was a world-class forger, after all, and Arthur did know what kind of jobs tickled his intellectual curiosity.

For only this reason, Eames replied.

_Why?_

Once again, the reply did not take long. 

_cuz its interesting. and its with me._

Eames could not believe that he was the one referred to as cocky. 

_Have you forgotten I beat you up last time I saw you?_

_that's not how I remember it. are you over your little fit in london?_

Eames didn't think. _Fuck you._

_i've missed you too, mr e._

Eames was now sitting up on the couch, and paused at this message. He'd missed this. This banter was his usual behaviour around Arthur, not him cowering or throwing punches. He slowly typed out a response. _What makes this job interesting?_ Eames considered a moment before pressing send. There was nothing wrong with intellectual curiosity.

_i knew i'd hook you. chance for creativity._

Eames couldn't help but grin. _You would need me for that._

_hey, i've got a backup forger already interested. thought i'd offer it to you first. even after you were such a bastard._

He felt a tinge of jealousy that Arthur would already have another forger lined up, although Eames knew that was stupid. Arthur was hardly the only extractor he worked with, although he was definitely one of the only ones he worked with repeatedly, and besides - he didn't want this job. He couldn't work with Arthur again. Nonetheless, he couldn't help wishing that he could take it. He stared at the papers on the table in front of him, holding the information he had collected already on the names Yusuf had managed to give him. He was going to go through them, one by one, and find _something_ that would tell him _why_ someone had done this to him.

But for now… he paused with his hands on his phone, unsure what to write. _I'm touched._

_you should be. care to meet up to discuss? i'm on your continent and need to come visit your neck of the woods to see y and his magical lab._

Fuck. Eames took a shuddery breath, the hands holding his phone suddenly clammy. Texting with Arthur was fine, even fun, but this… this was not okay. Eames suddenly felt sick, and put a hand to his stomach. He was hungover, that was all.

He put his phone down beside the whiskey bottle, before lying back down on the couch. Arthur had no idea where he was, what fucking continent he was actually on, and Eames was sick of pretending everything was fine between them only while they couldn't hear or see each other. He closed his eyes, hoping his stomach would stop doing flips.

It was only a few minutes later that Eames' phone let him know that Arthur was not going to be ignored. Eames didn't open his eyes, but groped for the phone. He brought it to his face, and opened one eye to look at his new message.

_y already informed me that you're in town, so i'm taking your silence as a yes. i'll call you when i arrive._

Eames flung his phone to the floor, half-hoping it would break. He did not need this.

\---

It was two days before Eames heard from Arthur again. 

He ignored his first call. Eames had spent the past two days barely leaving his flat, his enthusiasm for finding out who had kidnapped him renewed with Arthur's texts. Eames knew who it was immediately, but still - seeing Arthur's name, knowing he was in the country, in Eames' bloody city, almost sent Eames into another panic attack like he hadn't had since London.

Arthur didn't give up easily. A few hours went by before he called again, and once again Eames ignored it. It was when Arthur tried calling back immediately after the voicemail kicked in that Eames grabbed his phone, rejecting the call and opting to text.

_What_

Of course, it didn't take long for Arthur to reply. Jesus, what was he, attached to his mobile phone 24/7?

_did an enemy cut out your tongue or something?_

Eames went still. Why would Arthur ask that? Eames' hands began to shake as he thought about Arthur knowing, Arthur realising what had happened. He inhaled slowly, willing his hands still, and sent a reply message quickly.

_What the fuck, why would you say that?_

Immediately after sending the message, Eames realised he was probably overreacting. Arthur's message had nothing in common with what had actually happened, but still… Eames didn't want think about Arthur having _any_ idea what had happened.

When his phone dinged again, Eames was slow to open the message. Relief flooded his body as soon as he read Arthur's message.

_calm down you just seem to have a recently contracted aversion to talking. as i recall, i usually can't shut you up._

This, this exactly was why Eames could not see Arthur. He freaked out at the smallest thing when the closest he was to Arthur was words on a screen - he was likely to have another panic attack if he actually saw him. So fuck whatever job he had, fuck the fact that Arthur was in Mombasa, Eames was staying the fuck away.

_I'm busy._

Eames knew this message alone wouldn't placate Arthur, but he put his phone down optimistically, picking his laptop back up. 

_y says you're lying about being busy. do you want to discuss this job?_

Fucking Yusuf. Eames was going to punch him next time he saw him.

_I'm not interested in the job._

There. Done. Eames didn't know what else Arthur could expect from him. This was over.

Of course it didn't take long to get a reply. Eames considered ignoring it. But if he did, he wasn't entirely unconvinced that Arthur wouldn't show up at his door. It was unlikely - Arthur didn't usually go where he wasn't wanted, the time in London be damned - but in the interest of keeping him out of Eames' business…

Eames opened his phone.

_i come all the way to mombasa and you're not interested?_

_You came for Yusuf's magic, which I'm sure you'll get, you can find someone else to be creative._

Eames didn't even entertain the show of putting his phone down this time. He kept it loosely in his hand, waiting for a reply, while half-heartedly attempting to go back to the research on his laptop. 

Arthur didn't make him wait long.

_i didn't just come for his magic._

Eames didn't have a response to this. He sat with his phone in his hand, open to a new message, but didn't know what to write. Leaning back, Eames looked around his flat, suddenly upset. He wanted to see Arthur, he wanted things to just be normal, fuck all of this.

His phone dinged again.

_we're at y's house_

Eames considered this. He wanted to go. He wanted to see Arthur and hear about whatever job he had deemed interesting enough that it would excite Eames, wanted to have a night out with Arthur and Yusuf like they last had during the Fischer job. Wanted to just _go_ and not have it be this big a decision.

But he couldn't. He knew he couldn't. He realised, with a bit of a shock, that he was close to tearing up, and felt incredibly stupid, although there was no one in his flat to see him in such a state. Wiping his eyes angrily, he texted Arthur one last time.

_I'm busy. I don't have time for a job with you right now._

Eames put his phone aside after hitting send. He looked at his laptop; he was sick of attempting to find any more info on what had happened. He decided since his luck was so shit in other areas, he would go to his favourite casino - he was due for a burst of good luck, surely.

He left his phone at home, but it didn't matter - Arthur didn't text him again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

Six weeks passed relatively uneventfully, and then Arthur's name, like a swift blow to the solar plexus, showed up on Eames' phone again. Eames' final text to Arthur when he was in Mombasa should have been the closing chapter on their relationship, working or otherwise. Despite whatever problems Arthur had cutting ties with people, he wasn't known to be one to reach out, especially when it was clear he wasn't wanted.

Eames was working on a document he was creating for a friend-of-sorts in a casino he frequented, part of an agreement that would greatly benefit Eames' odds at this casino, when from the other room, his phone alerted him to a new message. He glanced towards his bedroom warily, too engrossed in his current task to get it right away. There was no reason anyone should be texting him on that phone - he'd kept up his avoidance of the dream-sharing business, and hadn't even seen Yusuf in weeks.

Eames had been trying to forget. He'd all but abandoned the research he had been conducting, realising that he'd come to the end of the information he could gather online. He'd turned up nothing but dead ends, and really could only get further if he were to go visit people in person. He'd briefly thought of heading to Copenhagen, the known location of one of Ekroth's labs, but he hadn't yet mustered up the energy to plan the trip. He was going to go, just… later. Soon.

He still had the nightmares, but they were getting better - or at least, if he drank enough before going to bed they didn't feel as graphic.

He hadn't used his PASIV or seen Yusuf in a while, but Eames still had the money from the Fischer job. With the addition of whatever he could make at the casinos (and his luck was, of course, slightly higher than the average, honest gambler), Eames wasn't hurting for cash. He figured he'd have to go back to forging sometime, but a few months off wasn't going to hurt anyone. 

Hopefully it would give his subconscious enough time to forget what had happened.

Eames placed the nearly completed document to the side, letting some of the ink dry, and stood up, stretching. He walked into his bedroom and grabbed his phone. He was not at all excited to see who was messaging him.

It was Arthur, of course. Despite the genuine surprise Eames felt, half of him had been sure as soon as he had heard his phone that the message would be from Arthur. The majority of the dream-sharing community probably already believed him dead or retired and thus had no reason to contact him. If anyone would bother trying to contact him, it _would_ be Arthur.

Eames stared blankly at Arthur's name on his phone - not registering anything but the bone-deep exhaustion he had gotten so used to. He thumbed open the message and suddenly felt as though he's been kicked in the gut.

_what do you know about gregory murray? have you ever worked with him?_

Eames gripped the phone harder, clenching his jaw, even as he heard the notification that he had another message. Leaving the phone in the bedroom, he strode purposefully back into his living room and grabbed a pile of papers sitting next to his laptop on the counter. He flipped through them. There. Greg Murray. A forger from the US, active in the dream-sharing business for the past few years, making quite a name for himself in the last year or so. His name had come up more than once in connection with the compound Eames had been drugged with - he was known to work with one Ekroth's lackeys. Eames had done a bit of messing around online, trying to get all the information he could on Murray, but there hadn't been much. And, more importantly, there hasn't been any smoking gun that had made Eames suspect he was involved with what had happened to him. He'd never even met the guy.

But now. Why the fuck was Arthur asking about him? Arthur wasn't the type to ask others' opinions on whatever people he chose to work with, and Eames had never even seen him type out someone's full name in a text message.

Eames realised the papers still in his hands were shaking slightly, and put them down. He felt a flush of heat rising up his neck. He had been so good, worked so hard to forget all this, not thinking about it for weeks. Bloody Arthur, of course, ruined that all with two sentences, one name.

His phone dinged in the other room and Eames felt so depressed, so fucking awful that for a moment tears pricked at his eyes. He rubbed them quickly; once again, something so fucking minor, so fucking normal had become so upsetting to him, and he stalked back into his bedroom, reaching for his phone.

Two new messages. From Arthur.

_i'm coming back to mombasa. i know you don't want to see me, but we need to discuss something important. i'll be there tomorrow and i'm turning my phone off now so you can't get in contact with me to tell me not to come._

Eames flicked to the other message before he could properly think about the first one.

_my flight gets in at 7:45 am. i'll be at your place by 9:00. be there. please_

Eames flung his phone down onto his bed, closing his eyes. Fuck.

\--

He considered not being there, of course. But when it came down to it - Arthur made a career out of finding information, and finding people. Although Eames considered part of his career hiding from people, he wasn't sure he wanted to go up against Arthur in this arena. Eames knew that unless he was willing to give up everything he had and truly go into hiding - a circumstance he always had plans for, just for the worst case-scenarios - Arthur would find him.

So it was just easier, really, to be there when he said. He was only saving time. 

Eames spent the entire night trying to find any information on Murray that he might have missed - with no dice. At 8:45 the next morning he found himself anxiously sitting in his flat, glancing at his watch every few moments repeatedly.

Arthur wasn't late, of course. The knock on the door at 9:00 sent a bolt of adrenaline through him.

He could do this. Eames was a forger and he was the best. He acted for a living. If he could persuade business men to confess their darkest secrets to him, could convince wives married for fifty years that he was their beloved husbands, he could undoubtedly remain calm around Arthur.

He looked out the peephole before opening the door, stupidly hoping to see the mailman, a door-to-door salesman, fuck - Eames would rather see one of the debt-collectors he spent half his life avoiding than who he knew it was. But, of course, there was Arthur, looking cool and calm as anything.

Eames took a deep breath, and - with his totem clenched in his hand - closed his eyes. He felt himself slip into character as surely as he slipped into a forge in a dream, felt some of the anxiety he was feeling dissipate. 

'Arthur!' He opened the door quickly, his totem back in his pocket and a convincing grin on his face. 'Back in Mombasa so soon?'

Arthur looked ever so slightly taken back by this greeting. He cocked an eyebrow. 'I'm surprised you're actually willing to see me this time.'

'I've been terribly busy, you know - things to do, people to be. But you have something important to talk about that just couldn't be put off, hm?' Eames could hear his heart beating so loudly in his ears that he was almost worried Arthur could hear it, too. His tone was just right, his posture was open - Eames knew he was convincing. He just couldn't stop the nervousness he felt. 

Eames took a step back, allowing Arthur into the flat. Turning his back to him, he walked to his refrigerator. 'Coffee?' he asked, not turning around.

'Yeah, sure.' Arthur said warily. 'Look, I won't be here long - I have a flight in a few hours, actually. I just… there's something we need to discuss.'

Eames took as long as he could getting the coffees, out of Arthur's sight. He picked through the mostly empty fridge, as though looking for the coffee grounds that were right in front of him, searched through a drawer for the cafetiére he knew was on the counter near the sink, anything to keep him away from Arthur a little bit longer. If this was a dream he would be able to hold any forge for as long as he needed to, pretending to not be bothered by Arthur's presence shouldn't be that much harder.

Returning to the living room, Eames handed Arthur his coffee, before walking over and plopping himself down directly in the middle of the couch, taking up as much space as he could. Eames leaned forward, his mug in his hands, as Arthur followed, standing awkwardly for a moment before sitting on the chair next to the couch, a few feet away from Eames.

Fuck. He was too close. Eames struggled to not move down the couch, to get a few precious feet from Arthur. He busied himself with shutting his laptop and fiddled with the piles on paper on his coffee table. He didn't look at Arthur.

Arthur waited a beat before speaking. 'Yusuf told me.'

Eames' heart stopped, he swore it did. His vision faded for a second, even as he could hear his voice, as if far away, asking, 'What?'

'Yusuf told me about your kidnapping.'

Whatever attempt Eames had made at using his acting skills was gone. Eames stared at Arthur as his vision cleared, feeling sick. Fuck, _fuck._ He found himself holding his cup of coffee so hard that his knuckles had turned white, and he turned his gaze to them dully as Arthur went on.

'Look, Eames.' Arthur paused. 'I need to talk to you about this, but I know that you don't want to talk to me. I think I know who did it and why and I need to see if your story syncs up with what I know.' There was another pause. 'I won't bother you long, okay?'

Eames didn't want to have this conversation. He no longer wanted Arthur in his chair, or in his flat, or anywhere near him. But he was also thinking coherently enough - barely - to realise that he had to know what Arthur knew, how _much_ he knew, and he had to know if Arthur did know who did this.

'What did he tell you?' Eames finally looked at Arthur. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, hear the blood pounding through his veins, but he had to hold it together. He didn't know what Arthur knew, but freaking out in front of him would surely make this all worse.

'Don't be angry with Yusuf,' Arthur warned, already defensive on his behalf, and if Eames thought he could touch him without wanting to die, he would shake him. 

'Fine, I won't, what did he tell you?' Eames snapped.

Arthur stopped again. 'Calm down. He only told me after you refused to see me --'

Eames could have killed him. 'Don't tell me to fucking calm down, Arthur, tell me what the fuck Yusuf told you.'

Arthur put one hand up and raised both eyebrows. 'Okay. Okay,' he said, placatingly. Eames was seething, just wanting to get this all over with. 'Yusuf told me that you were kidnapped before London and forced into a dream state.'

Eames could literally _feel_ the rage course through him, as if someone had given him a shot of pure adrenaline. Who was Yusuf to tell Arthur, to tell _anyone_ what had happened to him?

Something must have shown on his face, because Arthur got even more defensive on Yusuf's behalf. 'Eames, look, it's good he told me - I know who did it.'

'I… w-what?' Eames' voice shook so much that he stuttered, and he cursed at himself inwardly, knowing that Arthur must have noticed.

'Gregory Murray. If he wasn't in charge, he at least had something to do with it.' 

'How do you know that?' Eames worked to make his voice stronger, but he could still hear a low tremor in his tone - he hoped that would get past Arthur.

'Yusuf told me what you had already figured out - about Ekroth, and her experimental formulas, and I did some research. And - that last job, the one I wanted you for?' Arthur paused, and Eames nodded. 'I worked with Murray and some members of his team during it. They… dropped some hints, said some things that made me curious.'

Oh fuck. 'Like what?' All sorts of things - all sorts of disgusting things - that this Murray could have said, if he was truly the one who had kidnapped Eames, flashed through his mind and he hoped to God Arthur hadn't heard any of them.

'Nothing important - just weird stuff --'

'Arthur, what the fuck did he say?' 

Arthur paused again before speaking, studying Eames in a way that made his skin crawl. 'Nothing too specific. He and Khamis, a chemist who usually works with Ekroth, asked about you a few times, and Murray really wouldn't leave it alone. It seemed to amuse him, bringing your name up, and his taunts became particularly smug whenever Ariadne or I mentioned that we hadn't see you recently. I guess it wouldn't have seemed that weird, really, except that his name came up a few days later, after finishing the job, when I was looking up the info Yusuf gave me.'

It sounded like Arthur didn't have the full story, thank God, and if he was right that Murray was responsible for all this, Eames was almost so happy to know who did this to him that he didn't care that Arthur knew more than he had ever wanted him to. 

'What did you find on him?' Eames struggled to sound professional, again playing with the papers on the table in front of him. He suspected he had already shown his hand too much, knew that Arthur was well aware of how upset he was, but he thought if he could just play it cool, maybe the situation wasn't totally lost. Eames could still forge his way out of this. 'I was doing my own research, but I never --'

'Eames,' Arthur interrupted him. 'You stick to forging, I'll handle the research.'

Eames wanted to have a snappy reply to this, something along the lines of him being talented enough to handle any aspect of a job, but - Arthur was right. He was better at research, and if he'd used his skills to help Eames find who he was looking for, he couldn't really fault him.

'I don't know how much information you gathered,' Arthur continued, 'but nothing I managed to get was really that helpful. It was only when I talked to Khamis that I got what I wanted to know.'

Eames knitted his eyebrows, suddenly wary of the answer to his next question. 'How, exactly, did you get him talking?'

Arthur shrugged, looking casual. 'I can be persuasive,' he said simply. He shot a look at Eames. 'Khamis might be taking a break from the dream-sharing business for a while, by the way.'

Eames nodded. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to care too much about whatever it was Arthur had done to someone who, at the very least, had known what Murray had done to him, but he was taken slightly aback. Eames had been avoiding Arthur - no, actively pushing Arthur away for months now, and yet Arthur had been using this time to _torture_ someone to get intel on his behalf? He figured Arthur was only worried about his own security, since he and Eames had a well-known working relationship, but it still shook Eames, and he wasn't sure what he thought of it.

He avoided discussing that aspect, however. 'So what could he tell you?'

Arthur let out a long breath. 'It's fucked up, Eames,' he said after a moment.

Eames almost snorted with laughter. Arthur seemed to have no idea how fucked up it really was, thank God.

'Look, I know that they did some sort of crude inception on you - I'm not going to flatter them by even thinking about the possibility that they are talented enough to have done a real inception, which is why I think you've been acting the way you have.' Eames bit his tongue before he could ask Arthur what exactly he meant by that, feeling, in some ridiculous way, slighted. 'Yusuf told me you don't remember much of the dream they put you in, is that right?' Arthur looked at Eames.

'Yeah, its all a bit blurry,' Eames lied. 

Arthur paused here; looked uncomfortable. 'Well, he must have planted the idea of you being angry at me in your head, somehow.' A beat. 'Right?' Arthur watched Eames, the rigid hold of his shoulders revealing that he was - ever so slightly - nervous.

Eames shrugged. 'Yeah, I suppose. Something like that.'

Arthur sat back, looking the tiniest bit relieved, and Eames felt, for the first time since this entire terrible thing began, his affection for Arthur rise above his fear and anger. Arthur was apparently invested enough to hope that Eames was only angry because of a planted idea and while he wasn't entirely right - or, really right at all - Eames was slightly flattered that this idea seemed to make Arthur feel better. Maybe he did still care about Eames, in some way, despite how he'd treated Arthur over the past few months.

'Right,' Arthur said, returning to his professional, cold manner. 'Yusuf said it happened before London, which makes sense, I guess - especially considering your appearance at the start of the job, and your… behaviour during it.

'I'm sorry, you know,' Arthur said, softly, and it's so unexpected that Eames just looked at him. 'If I did anything. To make it worse.' He shifted in his chair, leaning slightly forward, closer to Eames.

That distance was enough to make Eames' pulse ratchet up, and he jumped before he could stop himself. He tried to cover it, by standing up and heading to the kitchen. 'I, uh, need some water.' Eames' voice sounded shaky. 'Do you want any?'

'No.' Arthur's tone was inscrutable.

Eames dutifully filled a glass at the tap, despite not being particularly thirsty. He looked at the fridge longingly, aching for a beer, but knew that would only set off alarm bells in Arthur's mind, and he didn't want to do anything to make Arthur second-guess his own interpretation of what had happened. They hadn't really performed inception. He was pretty sure of that. Although he realised the dream had long-lasting effects, he didn't think it had anything to do with planting an idea in Eames' mind - the memories were enough.

Eames returned to the living room after a moment, feeling slightly more composed. He sat farther away on the couch and although it wasn't as far away as he would have liked, he felt more in control, even with such a small difference.

'So,' he said, putting his water down on the table in front of him. 'Did you figure out any prospective _reasons_ for this inception?'

Arthur nodded, studying Eames for a moment. 'That's where it gets fucked up.'

Eames only raised his eyebrows in response.

'I'ts my fault.' Eames' heart accelerated at this, once again making him feel dizzy and sick. 'Kind of. I mean --'

'Jesus Christ, Arthur,' Eames couldn't take it anymore. 'I've never seen you dance around a topic so much. Just tell me what you found out.'

'They were trying to get to me. Or, well, they were trying to get me away from you.' Arthur's tone was apologetic, but Eames was still confused. 'It's… weird,' he said, shaking his head. 'Not what I would have expected, but strangely flattering, I guess. I still don't know the full story, but Murray apparently thinks I'm the best in the business - which, I have to say, is one of the few things he has right in all of this. And he thinks he's the best forger,' Arthur levelled his gaze at Eames.

Even when overwhelmed by emotions, Eames' ego rose to this bait. 'Bollocks,' he said simply.

Arthur smiled, slightly. 'Exactly. You'll be glad to know he did see you as competition, of sorts. Murray thinks me and him would make a nice team - the best team in dream-sharing, apparently.'

Anger coursed through Eames. So fucking _this_ \- this was the reason he had been put through such misery for months, such degradation and pain. 'So, what, he wanted to - he kidnapped me to try to… break our team up? Are you fucking kidding?'

Arthur nodded. 'Khamis said Murray wanted to make sure we never worked together again, so Murray could swoop in and take your place as my go-to forger.'

It was almost more humiliating, somehow, that all of these months of panic, of disruption to his entire _life_ , could be blamed on such a stupid, petty reason. Eames stood up again, pacing the length of the small living room. He wanted to punch something. 'What a stupid fucking reason…' he faded off.

Arthur barked a laugh, sounding bitter. 'I told you it was fucked up.'

Eames stopped suddenly, standing in front of Arthur, the closest he had been to him since they met at the door. 'So, what's your plan? When are we leaving and where are we going?'

Arthur narrowed his eyes. 'What are you talking about, Eames?'

'I know you. There's no way you're letting Murray get away with this - and there's no way I am either. No one messes with me - or you - or, fuck, the team we have, such as it is.' Eames' voice was steadily rising. 'You must have some plan.'

'I do have a plan. But you've been avoiding me for months, acting --'

'I don't care,' Eames interrupted him. 'I'm going with you.'

Arthur nodded, and there was something in his gaze that Eames couldn't identify. 'Paris,' he said. 'I messaged Murray when I messaged you, told him to meet me there tomorrow. I have a flight in,' he checked his watch, 'three hours. You up for a trip, Mr. Eames?'

'There is no fucking way I'm missing this.'


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

Somehow it became easier to talk to Arthur, to be in the same room as Arthur, when they were concentrating on the task that Eames had been obsessing about for so long. Focusing on the bastard who had done this, finding him and making him pay, was enough to force Eames to once again concentrate on pretending that he was fine. Although he had a few moments where his breath had gone unsteady and his vision had blurred with fear, he managed to stay together for the rest of the morning, as Arthur explained his plan and Eames offered suggested adjustments.

'You're lucky they had more room in first class,' Arthur said, closing his mobile. 'They said its pretty booked up, but managed to find you a seat.'

Eames snorted from his place on the couch, where he was looking through the information Arthur had collected - just a few pieces of paper in Arthur's small, meticulous handwriting. 'I'm sure you dropping Saito's name had nothing to do with that.'

Arthur grinned as he sat in the chair farthest away from Eames. 'Surely not,' he agreed, his tone surprisingly playful. 

It helped that Arthur seemed more accommodating now, no longer so confused by Eames' reactions to him. Even though he had the wrong idea, and the wrong cause, and was generally wrong about all sorts of things, Eames was thankful that Arthur seemed to understand that he couldn't get too close, couldn't prod him or tease him like he used to. It made Eames' act all the more easier, made it so at times - for a brief second - Eames wasn't sure he _was_ acting.

'We'll have to consider the hotel when we get there, though,' Arthur contemplated, forcing Eames' attention back from the papers in his hand.

'Oh?'

Arthur frowned. 'Murray knows what hotel I'm staying in, and he's planning on getting a room there too. We should stick together, make sure our plan goes off without a hitch, but - I'm not sure it's going to be a good idea to get another hotel room.' 

Eames looked at him, trying to think of a way to say no goddamn way without sounding crazy. 'I could, uh, stay with Ariadne?' he suggested. 'Or stay in another hotel, it's not --'

Arthur interrupted him. 'I don't want Ariadne anymore involved than she already is,' he said quickly, and Eames had to agree. He looked at Eames carefully. 'I don't know how… affected you are by this inception,' he said slowly, obviously searching for the right words. 'I realise you were never comfortable with me in London, no matter how hard you tried to act normal - is spending a night in one hotel room going to be too much?'

Yes, Eames wanted to say. But he was stuck on the fact that Arthur had known he was acting in London, and couldn't think of a way to say so without admitting how much the inception - or whatever it was - _had_ affected him. He hesitated, glancing at the papers in front of him. 

'Look - Eames, this isn't me hitting on you,' Arthur said, and once again Eames was struck by how little Arthur truly understood. 'I promise this is only for --'

'Arthur, I'm not worried about you hitting on me,' Eames scoffed, as though the idea was prosperous. 'I just don't understand what advantage you think we gain from sharing a hotel room - or sharing a hotel for that matter. After all, we don't want Murray to see us checking in together, right?'

Arthur frowned, and Eames could tell he wasn't convinced. 'Eames - Murray is _obsessed_ with you. He's going to know any potential alibis you have, any potential contacts you know in the city. There's no way you can check into a hotel - or even stay with someone - and have it go undetected.'

Eames pretended to be focused on the papers in front of him. 

'It's just safer,' Arthur said after a minute, sounding frustrated with Eames' lack of reply. Eames did look up then, wondering what he meant. 'It's safer,' Arthur repeated, his tone back to normal, 'to have you as an ace in the hole. Murray isn't getting into Paris until tomorrow - he sent me his flight information - and I want to make sure he doesn't know that you're anywhere near him until we want him to.'

'Arthur, I have alibis that he can't know about,' Eames said, still pretending that the information in front of him, now well-read, was captivating. 'Trust me. You act like I'm new to this, I can hide from someone if I like, and --'

'He found you in Mombasa, found your flat, broke into it, and kidnapped you in the middle of the night!' Arthur spit out, and Eames didn't understand why this was getting him so angry. 'Obviously Murray has more intel than you realise.'

When Eames finally looked up, Arthur's gaze forced him into a staring match, one that Eames ultimately lost. Arthur had his jaw set, and Eames could tell that - for whatever reason - he wasn't backing down from this. 'Fine,' Eames said after a minute. He knew he sounded petulant, but couldn't stop himself. 'It'll be fine.' He looked at Arthur again, straight on, and willed his words to be true. 'We need to figure out all the details tonight anyway, I don't see us getting much sleep. I suppose it could even be handy to be in the same room,' he conceded, as though this was his decision.

Arthur nodded, looking satisfied, and Eames just hoped that he was telling the truth.

\---

The flight was uneventful, and the arrival at the hotel where Arthur had a reservation was even less so. They checked in - for one room - under Arthur's fake name - Cob Charles (Arthur had looked defensive when Eames snorted, whispering 'Look, I've never been good at thinking up names, okay?') and were sitting in the hotel room, both on opposite beds, by midnight, Paris time. 

The plan was simple and straightforward and, despite what Eames had said in his flat, there wasn't much they had to do that night. They'd grabbed a bite to eat in the airport, eating most of it in the taxi they shared to the hotel, and Eames was now starting to get slightly nervous, wishing they had something else to do but go to sleep.

He hadn't had any nightmares in a few days, but he still had them regularly, once or twice a week. He was worried if he slept so close to Arthur - in the same fucking room, Jesus - he would have it again. Tired as he was from travelling, Eames was trying desperately to think of an excuse to do anything but go to sleep.

'I'm meeting with Murray tomorrow at noon,' Arthur said, checking his phone. 'He's arriving at the hotel tomorrow morning, and has a room booked for a few days - he's in between jobs, apparently, and thinks I want him for another prospective one. I'll meet him downstairs and take him to the warehouse.'

They were going to use the warehouse Saito had bought for the Fischer job, since the deed was still owned by his company. Arthur still had the keys and although it hadn't been touched since the Fischer job months ago, there didn't seem to be any reason not to use it now.

Eames thought it might bring a bit of good luck to them, since the Fischer job had been so successful despite going tits up so early. He hoped they wouldn't need any luck for what they had planned with Murray - it was a ridiculously simple plan, basically get him in the warehouse and get him to admit what he had done - but it couldn't hurt. 

While Arthur might have been fine with Murray getting some sort of message and walking out of the warehouse, maybe limping a bit, Eames wanted him dead. And he didn't want Arthur to understand why.

So, yeah, Eames was sure he could use a little luck.

'Shall we have a drink then, to celebrate our success thus far?' Eames asked. If he had a drink or two he was more likely to fall asleep for the night.

Arthur looked at him, while getting his laptop out of his bag. 'You want to go down to the hotel bar at midnight? Aside from the fact that's a generally awful plan, I don't think its a good idea for you to be seen --'

'Arthur, you truly are a stick in the mud,' Eames interrupted. 'I'll have you know I've met lifelong friends at hotel bars in the wee hours of the morning.' Arthur made a face that Eames took to mean _I'm not surprised._ 'But I agree we shouldn't be wandering the hotel, especially together, and that's why I was thinking a drink here would be better.'

Arthur followed his eyes to the hotel minibar, and pulled another disappointed face. 'That shit is always so expensive,' he dismissed, opening his laptop.

'One must pay for convenience,' Eames said in an agreeable tone, already up and opening the refrigerator. He grabbed a small bottle of whiskey and threw a bottle of vodka - Arthur's drink of choice - toward the second bed. Arthur caught it, looking at it closely for a second. 

'Fine,' he said, snapping his laptop closed. 'But you should throw some soda over here, too.'

\----

Eames didn't drink too much - he knew Arthur was scrutinising everything he did - but after a couple of mini-bottles of whiskey he was pleasantly tired enough to lie back on the bed, all his clothes still on. Arthur was still working on his laptop, doing God knows what, and Eames thought vaguely of getting his out too, just to look equally busy.

''What are you even doing on there?' he asked instead.

Arthur didn't look up. 'Working.'

'You're not on a proper job, you know. You can relax.'

'I'm trying to figure out more on Murray,' Arthur answered, still not looking up from the laptop screen. 'I think I've found some interesting stuff.'

Something cold shot through Eames. He didn't want Arthur figuring out anymore than he already had - as far as Eames was concerned, Arthur had played his part and done his research role. Now he should just calm down, and not find out anymore.

Arthur did look up at him then, his face unreadable. 'Is this true, Eames?'

'What?' Eames said, staring at the ceiling and trying to sound bored.

'This,' Arthur said, and turned the laptop screen to face him.

There was a moment of pregnant silence as Eames, frozen on the bed, stared at the laptop just a few feet away. Eames wanted nothing more than to get up and slam the laptop shut, maybe throw it out the window, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

It was a picture. A picture of Arthur and Eames, only Eames knew it was _not_ Arthur in the picture. He felt sick as he stared at the image, unable to turn away. Eames was naked, facedown in the concrete, bloody and already bruised, with Arthur laughing as he bent over him. It was a clear shot - it was obvious what was happening.

'Funny,' Arthur said, and his tone was anything but. 'I don't remember taking that one.'

Eames swallowed, his heart in his throat.

'Is that what you wanted?' Arthur asked, staring at him. 'Is this why you've been so angry at me? I didn't deliver in bed like you wanted?'

'I - what? No, it's --'

''Cause I could have done that, Eames. I can do it now.' Eames realised, with growing fear, that Arthur was moving closer until he was suddenly on Eames' bed, and leaning over him. Eames tried to move back, but felt the headboard behind him, the wall strong behind that. He had nowhere to go, as Arthur reached out to hold down his shoulders, and he was frozen, the feeling of Arthur's threatening proximity weighing against the feeling of being glued down. Arthur bent over him just as he had --

'Eames!'

Eames' eyes sprung open. It was dark in the hotel room, where it had been light only a moment before, and this stuck in his mind as peculiar, even as he realised that Arthur was still holding him down, his hand on his upper arm.

Eames tried to pull back, sitting up on the bed (when had he lain down?) and pushed Arthur's arm off him, not gently. Arthur let go quickly. He reached to turn on a light even as Eames realised - thank God, oh thank fucking God - he had been dreaming.

Eames sat on the bed, now in the dim light, for a second, just trying to catch his breath. He tried to remember Ariadne in the toilet in London, helping him to breathe slowly and carefully, and he pretended he had her near now, to show him how to take slow breaths. He grabbed his totem, which had been sitting on the bedside table next to him, and held it so tightly he could feel his nails digging into his palm.

'Hey, hey,' Arthur was saying, in a gentle tone Eames guessed was supposed to be comforting. 'Calm down, you were just dreaming.'

Eames turned away from him, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to Arthur. He felt nauseous, his stomach churning, and he didn't move, making sure he wasn't going to be sick. 

Arthur was quiet for a moment, the only noise Eames' raspy inhales, before Eames heard him stand up, moving so that he was within Eames' eyesight. 'I - look, I can get --'

'Don't touch me!' Eames heard himself say, his voice high and panicked, as he jerked away from Arthur.

'I wasn't going to touch you,' Arthur said, his voice still deep and trying for soothing, even as he sounded confused. 'I was just going to get you some water, is that okay?'

'Just - just get away from me,' Eames said, finding it harder to breath with Arthur so close. He shifted his poker chip from one hand to the other, making sure it was still the right texture and weight, that he was still awake.

Arthur did as he said, moving back to the other side of the room, and Eames closed his eyes, concentrating on calming down and the totem in his hand.

'Eames?' Arthur asked after a few minutes had passed and Eames' loud gasps had slowed down.

'I'm fine,' Eames managed to choke out. He took another deep breath, shut his eyes and willed his voice to sound normal. 'Just… just give me a minute.' He didn't want to look at Arthur, didn't want to have to explain what just happened, and part of him thought that if he just didn't move for long enough, Arthur would eventually leave him alone.

They both sat in silence for another few minutes; Eames' raspy inhales eventually quieting entirely. His mind was numb, thinking was like trying to move through syrup, and he couldn't think of what to say to Arthur.

'I think I was wrong about your inception.' Arthur finally broke the silence; his voice was soft. Eames didn't turn around to look at him, but he could hear that he was still on the other side of the room, as far away from Eames as he could be. Eames couldn't help but appreciate it.

'Oh?' he managed to get out.

'Whatever they - Murray - did, it didn't just make you angry at me. It _scared_ you. And… and I think you're scared of me.'

Eames almost snorted with laughter, even as he felt a shot of fear bolt down his spine. 'I'm not,' he lied, finding it easier to think, to talk. No matter how close to right Arthur was, Eames didn't want him getting any closer. 'I dunno what you're on about, but I'm not bloody _frightened_ of you Arthur, Jesus.'

'No?' Arthur had adopted the tone he often did when he was figuring something out, and that, more than his previous comment, scared Eames. 'You've been avoiding me, you flinch when I get near you, you had a fucking panic attack when you first saw me - now this? I thought you were angry, just trying to keep from trying to hit me again, but… Since when do you get nightmares, Eames, nightmares that make you scared to death of me as soon as you wake up?' 

Eames made a scoffing noise again, but didn't turn around. 'Don't flatter yourself. Haven't you ever been woken up from a dream when you didn't expect it?' He paused, unsure how to answer the rest of Arthur's accusations, especially since most of them were true. 'It's not you I'm frightened of,' he said, after a moment. 'I'd react that way to anyone grabbing me in my sleep.'

Arthur didn't reply, but sighed in a way that clearly conveyed he wasn't buying it.

Eames chewed at his lip, wanted to do something to just stop Arthur thinking anymore about this. 'I haven't been on Somnacin,' he admitted after a moment, figuring this was the least incriminating part to admit to, 'in a few weeks.' _Months_ , his mind corrected.

Arthur laughed dryly. 'Yeah, I figured that out. You think I haven't heard the rumours going around - that you're retired, that someone or something got to you enough to frighten you away from dream-sharing forever, that you won't even see Yusuf anymore?'

'None of that's true,' Eames protested, his back still to Arthur. He wasn't sure if he was lying.

Arthur's tone softened again. 'How long has it been?' Eames didn't answer, and after a moment Arthur tried again. 'How long since you last went under?'

Eames closed his eyes for a long moment, trying still to ignore him.

'Eames.' So lost in trying to appear calm, Eames hadn't noticed Arthur getting closer, until his hand was back on his upper arm. Eames didn't lash out at him like before, but instead jerked back as if Arthur had burned him. He stood up from his perch on the bed, spinning around so that Arthur was once again in front of him, in his sight.

'See?' Arthur threw up his hands, both showing Eames that he wasn't going to touch him again and using them for emphasis. 'It _is_ me - I can't even touch you without you freaking out. I thought you were angry, but that's not it, is it?'

'Trust me,' Eames said, and this time he didn't bother to hide the emotion in his voice. 'I am.' He wasn't lying; the more Arthur poked and prodded at him the angrier Eames was getting.

'But that's not it, that's not all.' Arthur squinted, studying Eames. 'You're angry, but…' he paused, obviously trying to figure it all out. 'Murray must have performed an inception on you about me _doing_ something, something to make you scared of me - he is a forger, after all. Or… if he didn't per --'

Eames interrupted him quickly. 'Look, I - your inception idea isn't wrong,' he said, trying to choose his words carefully. 'I'm not scared of you, exactly, I just… I'm not sure what the exact goal was, really.'

Arthur looked confused, and Eames would have given anything to get him and his problem-solving skills on any other issue. 'How did they do it?' he asked, after a moment. 'What was the inception they performed, how did they make you scared of me?'

'I'm not --' Eames cut himself off, not wanting to explain it anymore than he had to. Looking away, he said, 'I told you, I don't remember much about whatever dream they put me in.'

Arthur narrowed his eyes. 'You must remember something. I mean, you're _scared_ of me. What idea could they possible have planted in your subconscious to make you frightened of _me_?'

'Trust me, I'm as confused as you are. I'm twice your size and could take you in any fight.' Eames' attempt at humour fell flat, and Arthur didn't even bother arguing, just rolled his eyes. He didn't press the point, however, as he usually would have.

'Tell me what you do remember,' he ordered instead.

'Nothing,' Eames said quickly. Mentally, he forced himself to calm down, to put on a calmer face. 'I don't remember anything. Maybe it was a side effect of this new compound they had me on, I dunno, but I don't remember anything.' Looking away again, Eames played with the poker chip still in his hand for a moment before saying, 'I'm not fucking scared of you, Arthur, I just… its complicated.'

'Complicated?' Arthur parroted, his tone disbelieving. 'It's complicated.'

'Look, its not even four am. We have to be up and able to deal with Murray tomorrow - today, really - and I am _tired_. Can we please discuss this at some sort of proper time?' Eames glanced at Arthur again, willing him to go back to his own side of the room.

Arthur didn't move from his place next to Eames' bed. He stared at Eames for a moment, and Eames struggled not to turn away. 'You're tired,' Arthur said, and Eames couldn't figure out if it was a question or a statement. 'You're tired and it's all too complicated to explain to me.'

Deciding that Arthur's pause meant an answer was expected, Eames sighed. 'Yeah, sure, that. Can we please discuss this in a few hours?'

'No.' Arthur all but jumped over to his bag near the closet, on the other side of both beds, and although Eames was glad for the distance, he was wary of whatever Arthur was planning. He realised he was reaching for the PASIV device when Arthur spoke. 'I have the perfect solution for your tiredness and for how _complicated_ it is. You said you haven't been under in weeks, well - let's break that habit, shall we?'

If Eames wasn't so frustrated, so angry, and so fucking tired, he would have wanted to hit Arthur for his mocking tone. Instead, he just shook his head as Arthur set the PASIV device on his bed. 'No,' he said firmly. 'No bloody way am I connecting myself to that and letting you poke through my subconscious. I am going to _bed_ , Arthur, and you can try to psychoanalyse me in the fucking morning - but you're not using the fucking PASIV.'

'Eames, this --' Arthur started, but Eames didn't let him finish his thought.

'I said no, Arthur, Jesus,' he said, louder than intended. He took a deep breath, then spoke again, in a quieter tone. 'Look just… Leave this alone, okay? I'm going to sleep.' A beat. 'By myself.'

There was a pause, as both Arthur and Eames studied the other for a long moment. Eventually, Arthur nodded, and moved to place the PASIV back with his suitcase. 'Good night,' he said simply, and Eames didn't bother to point out that it was already morning.

Eames lay back down in his bed, getting under the covers and turning his back to Arthur. He kept his totem in his hand, hoping Arthur didn't notice this weakness. He struggled to make his breathing even, closing his eyes and trying to coax himself back to sleep.

After a few minutes, Arthur turned off the light and Eames heard him crawl into his own bed. It was much longer, however, until Eames felt Arthur's studying gaze leave him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.
> 
> This chapter contains extreme VIOLENCE.

They didn't talk about it in the morning. They woke up only a few hours later, and got a quick breakfast from room service. Their conversation over the meal was terse - neither Eames nor Arthur mentioned the nightmare or brought up the PASIV device and Arthur's threat to use it. Instead, they went over their plan, basic as it was, and Eames, despite his apprehension, started to feel exhilarated, excited to see Murray and get this all over with.

Arthur set off to check on the warehouse after breakfast, to make sure it was still as he had last seen it. He left Eames with another set of keys and explicit instructions.

It was only a few minutes past noon when Eames received a text from Arthur, who was now downstairs in the hotel bar. 

_in the bar with m, leaving in about twenty minutes._

The plan called for Eames to be at the warehouse waiting for them. He snagged the keys, and his gun, and left.

\---

It was weird being back in the warehouse, where Eames had spent so much time during the Fischer job - along with Arthur, of course, and Yusuf, Cobb, and Ariadne. There were still remnants of it around - the whiteboard was there, though any writing was erased, and the chairs were still in a semi-circle around it, waiting for someone to stand up with a suggestion. He didn't have time to dwell on any of it, however. He knew Arthur wasn't far behind him, and as soon as he got in he attempted to make it look empty again, ducking into the room that had worked as Cobb's office.

He didn't have to wait long. 

He was checking his gun - an HK USP he'd attached a silencer to - making sure it was properly loaded, when he heard a door open and Arthur's voice, his words indistinguishable. He shoved the gun into his waistband, so that it wasn't entirely hidden behind his jacket - it wouldn't hurt for Murray to see what Eames was packing. Eames was glad he hadn't taken any longer getting to the warehouse - he wouldn't have wanted to miss the show.

Arthur and Murray stopped just a few feet from Cobb's old office, discussing something innocuous about the warehouse, when Arthur interrupted him. 'So, this job,' he began, but didn't get far before Murray cut in excitedly.

'Right,' he said, his American accent somehow sounding thicker than Arthur's. 'I'm glad you called me - let's get down to details.'

Eames figured this was a suitable dramatic moment for him to make his entrance, and, casually fixing the sleeves of his jacket, walked out into the main room of the warehouse.

'Gregory Murray,' he said, as though they were old friends. He smiled, but his eyes were cold, cruel. 'Really wonderful to see you.'

Murry's eyes widened, his panic obvious, and Eames couldn't help but enjoy it. Murray made some sort of attempt at moving - perhaps fleeing, perhaps about to hit Eames, when Arthur nabbed him from behind, forcing him into a headlock. He only struggled for a moment, until Arthur's clinch pinched off the blood to his brain and he fell unconscious.

'Fantastic entrance, Mr. Eames,' Arthur said, smiling at Eames, and Eames couldn't help but smile back. His gaze travelled to Murray, unconscious in Arthur's arms, and his smile widened.

\---

It all mimicked his dream a little closely, actually, and for a moment that made Eames uncomfortable.

He and Arthur manoeuvred Murray's dead weight onto a straight-backed chair Arthur had set up earlier that morning, tying his arms behind him with a zip tie. Eames recognised the pose from waking up the same way, in a frighteningly similar situation, from when Murray had had him. He cast it out of his mind, quickly - he was actively enjoying this, finally having Murray at his mercy in front of him, and he wasn't going to have his conscience or his panic prevent him from enjoying his victory.

Murray had only been unconscious for a few minutes, but began to show a few signs of waking almost as soon as they were finished making sure his hands were secure. He groaned, and Eames stepped back, holding his gun loosely at his side.

Arthur crouched beside him, patting his cheek lightly, as Murray groaned again, his eyelids fluttering. His body jerked, as he realised his hands were tied, and he blinked sleepily. Arthur stepped back, and Eames felt a thrill of excitement. He felt for his totem in his pocket quickly, brushing a hand down his leg, and was relieved to feel its comforting weight. This was really _finally_ happening.

Murray spent a moment shaking his head, opening and closing his eyes, evidently trying to get his bearings. Arthur and Eames just watched, standing a few feet away. Murray's gaze eventually settled on them and his eyes, apparently now clear, widened.

'A little surprised?' Arthur asked him, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 'Didn't expect to see us both, huh?' He paused, staring at Murray - who was still silent - for a long moment. 'I understand you've been trying to turn Mr. Eames here against me,' he said finally, and Eames felt a shot of adrenaline hit him. He finally had him, this was finally happening, and Eames was stuck between enjoyment at seeing Murray in this stance and apprehension at exactly how this was going to play out.

'It's… it's not like that,' Murray said, his voice getting stronger. 'It's nothing personal.' He only looked at Arthur, didn't acknowledge Eames. 'But Arthur… you're _wasted_ on him. Think of our last job - what we pulled off. You know it's because of my abilities --'

Eames didn't like this, didn't like that Murray hadn't even acknowledged his presence. Hearing him appeal to Arthur, at his own expense, was too much. He took a quick step closer to Murray, and hit him with the butt of his gun - not too hard, but enough to whip his head back, to remind him that he was there. 'Shut it,' he said. 'Our time to talk, Murray.'

Murray only took a moment to recover, while a thin line of blood began dripping down his face from a shallow cut from Eames' gun. He did stop talking, staring at Eames stonily. It was all Eames could do to keep himself in control, not to hit Murray again, harder. He took a step back, so he was once again even with Arthur, a precaution against losing his temper fully and striking Murray again.

This single step seemed to make Murray bolder, however - or maybe the head wound only made him angrier. He didn't stay silent long, turning his attention from Arthur to Eames, his lip snarling even before he began to speak. Eames felt a shot of remembered shame course through him from the force of his gaze alone, and fought to keep his face blank.

'Eames, we've never been properly introduced,' he said, and it angered Eames that he managed to keep his tone calm and even. 'Of course, _I_ know _you_ \- really well, in fact,' he smiled at him mockingly and Eames could feel his skin begin to crawl. He couldn't recognise any of Murray in the forge of Arthur that had hurt him, and this somehow made him angrier - angry that Murray wasn't as bad a forger as Eames had hoped he would be, angry that he could feel so awful around Arthur all the time, and yet fine around Murray, just fucking _angry_.

'Did he tell you all about our weekend together in Mombasa, Arthur?' he directed his attention away from Eames once again, and Eames didn't like it - he didn't want Murray directing this conversation, or any part of this encounter. This was _Eames'_. Arthur, for his part, looked bored, his arms still crossed, but his hand inching closer to his own gun, visible in a holster by his right hand. 

'Yeah, I heard it was a blast,' he said quickly. 'Hope it was worth it, because I think we three have some things we need to talk about.'

Arthur's boredom seemed to enrage Murray more, and his face was flushed when he next spoke. 'Good, because I have a lot to say, actually.' He flicked his glance towards Eames, who was trying to ape Arthur's casual pose, before looking back at Arthur. 'Did he tell you - your faggot boyfriend - did he tell you what he said, what he _screamed_ \- as I fucked him?'

Eames' heart sped up, his pulse skyrocketing. He wanted to tell Murray to shut up, but he was worried his voice wouldn't do what he told it. He wanted to go back over, to hit Murray again, but he wasn't sure he could move. He stayed still; he could feel Arthur's gaze on him and tried to appear normal. 

Murray smiled. 'Oh, he didn't tell you, did he?' Eames glanced at Arthur, trying to gauge his reaction, but Arthur's face remained a mask of passivity. 'He left out all the interesting details of our weekend together? Eames, I'm disappointed --'

This time Eames did react, moving quickly closer and hitting him again, harder than he had before. 'Shut up!' 

Murray only took a second to recover, as more blood started to drip down his face from a bigger gash on his temple. 'Did he at least tell you _who_ he spent it with?' he managed to spit out, looking at Arthur and ignoring Eames.

Eames didn't hit him this time. Instead, he lifted his gun, holding it just a few inches from Murray's face. 'Shut the fuck up or I swear to god,' he said, feeling his finger rest heavily on the trigger, 'I will murder you.' Murray's brave face wavered at this, briefly, and Eames could once again see the fear in his eyes. He smiled, keeping his gun steady as everything else in the room seemed to fade away except Murray's eyes on him.

'Eames,' Arthur spoke from behind him, bringing his focus back. His voice was still even, but Eames could hear a note of confusion in it. 'Calm down.' He stepped closer, reaching a hand up to pull Eames' gun away from Murray, but Eames shifted away before Arthur's hand could make contact. He took a step back, his gun once again at his side, as he tried to breathe and hold it together, his back to Murray and Arthur.

'What the fuck are you talking about, Murray?' Arthur asked, and Eames wanted to hit _him_ \- why was he _asking_ Murray questions? This wasn't part of the plan and he didn't want to hear whatever answer Murray had for him.

He spun around, facing Murray and Arthur, and forced a dry laugh. 'Isn't it obvious, Arthur?' he asked. 'He's trying to rile us up - turn us against each other.' He stepped closer to Murray again, his gun held tightly at his side. 'But it's not going to work.'

'This is cute,' Murray said, his confidence apparently back up now that Eames' gun was down. He flicked his head to get a drop of blood away from his eye. 'This little lovers' quarrel - I like getting in the middle of a relationship like this.'

'Murray, maybe you're not understanding that you're in no position to talk here,' Arthur said, moving so that he was standing beside Eames as if to negate what Murray had said. 

Murray laughed, sounding completely unafraid, and it shot through Eames like nothing else. He struggled to keep his face blank.

'I'm surprised you can even be near him.' Murray addressed Eames, and neither he nor Arthur interrupted him. 'I thought I did a good job of scaring you away.'

Eames glanced at Arthur, despite himself, and saw his eyebrows knitted, a look of confusion on his face before his bored mask slipped into place again.

Meanwhile, Murray was still talking, and Eames felt his hand shake, his gun shaking as well. 'But we had a good time - you and me, Eames - didn't we? Or maybe not - I think you were crying by the end of it, you pussy.' He laughed again, and Eames suddenly felt like he was looking at Murray through the wrong end of a telescope. His vision blurred and he felt himself stagger, trying to take a step back. All he could hear was Murray's laughter.

He hadn't had Arthur's laugh quite right. A person's laugher is almost always unique and Eames knew it was one of the hardest aspects of a forge to get right. Murray hadn't been quite as good as he thought - he didn't know Arthur well enough, had never been around him long enough to memorise his laugh. He hadn't gotten it right, and that had been the cue Eames had needed to question what Arthur had done in his dream, to question _Arthur._

Eames' breathing was laboured, stilted, as he felt himself back in the room Murray had created in his dream. He tried to slow his heart, to calm his panic, and remember where he was, but his mind was moving too quickly.

_'Did you miss me?' Arthur's voice asked, as he loomed over Eames._

_Eames was on his back on the ground, his head pushed up against the grimy stone wall behind him. He kept his expression defiant, even with his nose bleeding and his clothes gone. He still didn't understand what was happening, why Arthur would be doing this, what he possibly could have done to deserve the beating he'd been getting, but his anger outweighed his confusion._

_'What the fuck is wrong with you?' he spit out. 'If you actually want to do this, Arthur, get rid of your lackeys and try to actually take me on.' He looked quickly at the three men in the corner of the room, still in balaclavas. They looked bored, now that they weren't kicking or punching at Eames, and were clearly waiting Arthur's next instruction._

_Arthur ignored him. 'Get up,' he said._

_Eames wasn't about to follow directions. 'Fuck you,' he said. He didn't like the power imbalance of being on the ground when Arthur was standing before him, but he wasn't about to get up now that Arthur had told him to._

_Arthur smiled mockingly, cruelly, before leaning down and reaching for Eames. Eames recoiled at his touch, pushing back into the wall behind him, but it didn't make a difference. Arthur grabbed him by his shoulders and, with the help of two of the men in balaclavas, forced him to his knees. Eames struggled as one of the men behind him once again tied his wrists together, but his injuries - at least a few cracked ribs, what he suspected was a concussion, and what felt like a million bruises - didn't allow him to compete with the two larger men. Besides, as he had learned when they had first started hitting him, fighting back didn't get him anywhere._

_'Oh Eames,' Arthur said, 'we're gonna have such a good time.' He stepped closer, and his hands went to the fly of his trousers._

_Eames felt one of the other men stand behind him, so that he couldn't move back, and Eames closed his eyes briefly, not ready for what Arthur had in mind for him, not again._

_'What are you --' he tried to say, as Arthur grabbed the back of his head. 'Stop!' His head was pushed into Arthur's thigh, and Eames could feel his erection beside his cheek. He felt a flash of nausea. 'Fuck you, you fucking sicko!' he yelled, his voice somewhat muffled from the fabric of Arthur's trousers. He thrashed his head, but between the man behind him and Arthur's grip, he couldn't move._

_'Oh Eames, that is_ exactly _the plan.' Arthur laughed, and it sounded off. Eames was too keyed up, too panicked to realise it at first, but it was so strange, so un-him, that it made him pause._

 _Eames tried to think, tried to make his brain work, even as his skin crawled at the contact Arthur was still forcing. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there, in this random fucking room with Arthur and a bunch of guys in masks._ He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there.

_'This is a dream,' he said, and it gave him much less relief that he'd hoped._

'Eames.' Eames jerked his head up, amazed to see Arthur in front of him. His first instincts were to back away from him, to hit him, he wasn't sure, but understanding flooded him after a split-second. He felt his cheeks redden, for a moment sure that Arthur could somehow understand what he had been thinking about, and clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palm to keep him fully aware.

Murray was still tied up, still smiling mockingly at Eames and he wondered how long he had been frozen in place. His head was still swimming - he hadn't remembered anything so specific, so clear since he had first gone under in London. He hadn't realised that he'd had it wrong there, that in his own dream he'd been able to figure out Arthur was a forge much faster than he had the first time it had happened. He looked at Murray and felt sick - he was a better forger than Eames had realised; he'd managed to fool Eames for hours before his laugh had clued him in.

'Eames,' Arthur said again, softly. 'You okay?' Eames nodded hastily, embarrassed that Arthur had picked up on his discomfort. He wondered how shaken up he must look if Arthur, who would never otherwise be so unprofessional, would interrupt the job, such as it was, to ask him that.

Murray laughed again, and Eames shut his eyes, struggling to remain in the present. 'Ask him how okay he is, again,' Murray ordered Arthur, as Eames opened his eyes and looked at him murderously. 'He hasn't told you, has he, about who he spent such a nice weekend with? Who fucked him raw, who had him _begging_ for more, whose cock made --'

Eames lifted his arm, held it unwaveringly, and shot Murray in the head.

There was a soft noise from Murray, before his entire body went rigid, his eyes wide open. Blood spewed from his mouth and nose, as the back of his head exploded. His mouth was finally quiet, though, and Eames was grateful for that, at least, even as he felt vaguely sick at the scene in front of him. Murray collapsed forward, his entire body slack and held up only by his hands, still zip tied behind him.

Eames was frozen in place, staring at the figure in the chair, a growing bloodstain beneath him as his mouth and nose continued dripping blood. 

He could hear Arthur talking, saying something to him, but he couldn't distinguish the words and didn't move his eyes from Murray's body. He wasn't so big, Murray, nor very old - about Arthur's age, probably. Eames stared curiously at him, realising how little he knew about him, as the blood pool beneath him stretched closer. His mind briefly flashed to his time tied up in a chair, how he could have ended like that, how it might have been _neater_ than what had happened. He was brought back to the present when Arthur's hand clenched his shoulders, his fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath his collarbone. 

Arthur turned him to face him, and Eames was struck by coldness of Arthur's expression. Eames didn't struggle, not conscious enough of what was happening to feel the usual panic at Arthur's touch. 'What the fuck, Eames,' Arthur said, and his voice was tight, controlled. 'This is not a dream - people knew he was meeting us!'

Eames shook him off, still in a daze, and he wasn't sure how it happened, but a second later he had his gun up again, pointed at Arthur. His hand was not as steady this time, and he was shaking all over.

'Eames.' Arthur's eyes widened, his passive mask finally broken as he looked genuinely surprised at this turn of events. 'Put your gun down.'

Eames didn't answer and didn't lower his gun. The only sound in the warehouse was Eames' shuddery breathing.

'Eames,' Arthur said again, and this time he was clearly making an effort for his voice to be softer. He held up both hands, showing his palms. 'Calm down. I was targeted here too - take a deep breath and _put your gun down.'_

'He _used me_ ,' Eames' mouth twisted, and his voice broke. He tried again a second later, the gun still pointed at Arthur's head. 'He used me to get to you.' He laughed, but it was entirely humourlessly. 'He didn't care about me at all, he used _me_ to get to _you.'_

Arthur kept his hands up, his gaze growing more calculating. 'I know.' His tone was apologetic, and it made Eames shake more as a wave of something like grief washed over him at this sign of pity, dampening the burn of his anger. 'What was he saying? What did he do?'

Eames jabbed the gun at Arthur, narrowly avoiding touching his forehead, as he struggled to hold onto his anger. 'You don't understand.'

'No. I don't, so fucking _tell_ me,' Arthur said and then moved suddenly, twisting and grabbing Eames' forearm. He forced him to lower the gun now aimed at empty air, where Arthur had been standing only a second before. Eames dropped his hold on the gun almost as soon as Arthur touched him, struggling to get out of Arthur's grasp. Arthur let him go right away, keeping the gun as Eames took a few steps back, staring at Arthur.

'Don't touch me,' he said, his voice low and serious. He didn't sound like himself, and Arthur stared at him, even as he flicked the magazine out of Eames' gun, throwing it on a table to his right. He kept his own gun, but didn't raise it. 

Instead, he inched closer to Eames, his hands once again up in front of him. 'I won't,' he spoke slowly. 'But, Eames, you need to sit down - you look like you're going to pass out and you just - you scared me. Just,' Eames was backing up, slowly, his feet clumsy, trying to maintain the distance between him and Arthur, and Arthur herded him carefully towards a chair away from the corner where Murray's body was still in an awkward, unnatural pose. 'Sit down, okay?'

Eames all but collapsed in the chair when it hit the back of his knees, immediately bending over, his head in his hands. He was breathing quickly and his palms were sweaty, and Arthur was only making it worse by looming over him.

'Hey,' Arthur was saying, and Eames tried to tune him out, tried to pretend he was not so close. 'Hey, take deep breaths, okay?' Arthur looked over at the corpse of Murray and his tone was unreadable when he next spoke. 'Calm down. He's dead now - whatever he did to you, you killed him.'

'You don't know what he did.' Eames' tone was desperate, if slightly muffled by his hands, and he made an attempt to sit up straighter, taking his hand away from his face. He was relieved when Arthur took a step back, still close to him. 'You don't know,' he repeated, and he couldn't tell if it was a question or a statement.

'No, I don't,' Arthur agreed, his tone calming again. 'But if you could explain this to me I'd feel a lot less confused and might understand why you just killed someone in front of me.'

'I -' Eames stopped, took a breath. 'He forged you.'

'He forged me?' Arthur repeated back, lost. Eames nodded, before leaning forward once again with a deep inhale, his head back in his hands. Arthur was silent for a second. 'You fucked him,' he said a moment later, and Eames was surprised to hear in Arthur's tone that he wanted this to be true, wanted this to be the way it happened.

'No,' Eames said, suddenly feeling strangely calm. This was the moment he had been dreading for months, a moment he thought he'd rather die than experience, but now that it was happening it was almost a relief. 'No, that's --' his voice faltered. 'That's not exactly what happened.'

He didn't look at Arthur, so he couldn't see his face as he processed this, realised what exactly Eames was telling him. 'So, what he -' he stopped, abandoning whatever he was going to say. Instead, he asked, 'While you were under?'

'Yes,' Eames managed.

'As… as me?' Arthur's tone, which had been steely and strong a moment ago, was now wavering, ever so slightly, and Eames didn't know what that meant.

This time Eames couldn't speak in reply, and just nodded, his head still down.

'Oh God,' Arthur sounded sick, sounded disgusted, and Eames closed his eyes, wishing that he was anyone else. 'Oh God, Eames - Eames, I am so sorry.'

Eames realised, with an embarrassing jolt, that there were tears on his face, and he swallowed, taking in another gasp of air as he frantically wiped at his face. 'I had to kill him,' he said, but his voice sounded small, far away.

'Okay,' Arthur said, dazed, 'okay.'

'I'm sorry,' Eames concentrated on making his voice clearer even though he was not - not sorry Murray was dead and not sorry he killed him.

'God, Eames, don't _you_ apologise, Jesus.' Eames was not so far gone that he couldn't hear the noise of Arthur's mobile phone, and he looked up. Noticing his scrutiny Arthur put his phone down, hanging up whatever call he was making. 'Look,' he said, and Eames felt embarrassed by his tone, as if he were talking to an upset child. 'I - I didn't want to get Ariadne involved, but you need to just sit here while I call her, okay? I'm gonna get her and then you can hang out with her while I… while I take care of Murray. Is that okay?'

Eames' pulse shot up at the thought of Ariadne, of whatever Arthur would have to tell her, and he felt a surge of anger. 'I don't need someone to watch me,' he said, his voice loud but shaky. 'I can --'

'I know, I know,' Arthur interrupted, his phone open again. 'Just please, _please_ , Eames - let me take care of this so we can deal with… with all of this. Please.' His voice was a step away from pleading, and Eames suddenly didn't have the energy to fight. He felt drained, like the blood pooling in the corner of the warehouse was his and not Murray's.

'Fine.' His tone was so quiet he wasn't sure Arthur could hear him. Arthur thumbed at his phone, and Eames closed his eyes, bending forward to cradle his head in his hands. He took deep breaths, feeling dizzy, and tuned out as he heard Ariadne answer and Arthur begin to speak, not wanting to hear what he was saying.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

Eames sat with his head in his hands, his eyes closed, for what felt like a long time. He was vaguely aware of Arthur calling Ariadne, of him moving around the warehouse, but nothing really registered. Eames was there and was sitting in whatever chair Arthur had pushed him into and that was all he was sure about for a while.

At some point, he became aware that Ariadne had arrived, and that she and Arthur were having a heated discussion. Listening to them, even for a moment, made him too conscious of how his stomach was churning and how nauseated he was. Arthur was upset that Ariadne had come to the warehouse, that much he gathered, but he didn't want to hear Arthur's explanation for the scene, so he tuned back out.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before he was brought back to reality, somewhat, by Ariadne calling his name. She was very obviously _not_ touching Eames to get his attention, but her gentle voice had an edge of exasperation that made Eames wonder how many times she'd had to say his name.

'Eames.' He raised his head, opening his eyes, as she tried again. 'Hey,' she smiled at his attention, but her eyes look worried. 'I borrowed a car from a friend - do you want to go back to your hotel with me?'

Eames didn't answer right away, his brain still hazy, slow. He blamed it on having his head down for so long, the blood rush to his head, and blinked a few times.

Ariadne waited a minute before asking again. Her voice was so gentle that it infuriated Eames. 'Is it okay if I drive you back to the hotel?'

His anger faded as quickly as it rose, however - he couldn't keep anything in his head, not even emotions. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but answered, 'Yeah, sure.'

Ariadne nodded, her face serious. 'Okay, good. We'll leave Arthur here, okay?'

Eames stood up, his head swimming even more at the change in altitude, and even in his stupor, he was reminded of Ariadne calming him down in London. She was using the same tones, the same motions now as she had then and Eames couldn't clear his head enough to think about what that meant. 

He dutifully followed her towards the main entrance of the warehouse, when Arthur spoke from the corner of the warehouse. 'Wait.' It startled Eames, hearing his voice echo across the large workspace, and he jerked his head towards Arthur, his heart rate reacting strongly. He stifled his urge to flee, however, and stopped.

Arthur moved closer, but paused a few metres away from Ariadne and Eames, keeping a safe distance. 'His jacket,' he addressed Ariadne, motioning to the sleeve of Eames' jacket. 'It's got blood on it. Give it to me.'

Eames heard him and began to shrug off his jacket, not looking at either Arthur or the sleeve of his jacket. He threw it at Ariadne and didn't wait for her, walking to the entrance and outside. He avoided looking at the corner of the warehouse where Murray's corpse was getting cold, still in the unnatural position in the chair.

Stepping out of the warehouse, he quickly leaned against the stone wall next to the door. It was raining, slightly. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. His mind was going fast and slow at the same time, and Eames couldn't keep any thoughts in his head for longer than a heartbeat, or so it seemed. He was saved from too much thought, however, when Ariadne walked out just a few paces behind him. She nodded to a brown car, clearly well-used, parked a few car-lengths away. 'It's my friend Etionne's,' she said, but Eames barely registered it.

They were both in the car, Ariadne turning the key, when she flicked a glance at him. 'Arthur told me where you were staying,' she said, and Eames thought he could hear a hint of nervousness in her tone. 'It won't take long to get there.'

Eames didn't answer, but rolled his window down a few inches. The air, cooled by the rain, felt good on his face, kept him more alert, and he was aware enough to realise that he was scaring Ariadne, that she wasn't used to seeing him this quiet and withdrawn. He considered saying something - apologising, trying to make some joke - but even the thought tired him out, and instead he rested his head next to the window, staring out at Paris.

The car was silent for a few minutes. The breeze on his face, as well as getting some distance away from Arthur and Murray, was slowly bringing Eames back to reality. Embarrassment began to course through him, and it was so strong he felt shaky. He closed his eyes, wishing he was anywhere but where he was, wishing he could go back to feeling as numb as he had.

Ariadne was still staring at the road, and he glanced at her. She was biting her lip as she took a right turn, and appeared entirely concentrated on the task of driving. For once, she wasn't asking questions, and Eames knew he should have been revelling in the silence, thankful that she was focusing on something other than him. Instead, he broke the silence.

'So,' he said, his tone flat. 'Arthur told you.' It was not a question, really.

Ariadne flicked another glance at him, but put her eyes back on the road so that Eames couldn't read her face. 'He told me, yeah. He was really upset when he called.'

Eames nodded grimly, and didn't reply before turning back to looking out the window.

\---

They were in the hotel, just down the hallway from Eames' room, before either spoke again. 'Thanks for the ride,' Eames said, as he reached for the hotel key card in his trouser pockets. His mind flashed to the fact that Arthur had a matching card, they he was still sharing a room, and Eames almost laughed - no point of that now, Murray finding out was hardly a possibility.

'You're welcome,' Ariadne said, following him into the room and not taking it as the dismissal Eames had intended it.

Eames ignored her, lying down immediately on his bed, stopping only to toe his shoes off. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and waited for Ariadne to speak.

He didn't wait long. 'Eames, if you want to --'

'I'm tired, actually,' he said, not looking at her. He moved his arm to cover his eyes. 'I know Arthur undoubtedly told you to babysit me, but,' he paused and cleared his throat, which was suddenly dry. 'You don't need to. I'm going to have a lie down; I'll be fine.'

'I'm not baby-sitting you,' Ariadne said, but her voice wasn't strong and she didn't deny Arthur having asked. 'I have schoolwork to do… will my laptop bother you?' Eames didn't reply right away, as he heard her sit on the opposite bed, heard the mattress creak slightly as she got comfortable. 'I'll be quiet, you won't even know I'm here.'

Eames loved Ariadne, he did, and it was only for this reason that he didn't tell her to get out in stronger language. Instead, he shook his head, too tired to argue, and lay on his side, his back to Ariadne. He kept his eyes closed and tried to clear his mind completely.

\---

Eames woke up a few hours later, surprised that he had been able to fall asleep at all. His back was still to Ariadne, who he could hear on the other bed, though she was being perhaps the quietest Eames had ever known her. He didn't turn to her right away, but instead looked outside the window. It didn't reveal much. It was greyish, which could mean it was dusk or dawn or just raining like it had been earlier. Eames was reminded of the many times he had woken up to such conditions in Mombasa, on his couch after a night drinking, and couldn't help but think some alcohol - Christ, any kind as long as it was bloody alcoholic - would help the situation.

He took a second to wake up more fully, before he turned to look at the other bed in the room. It wasn't Ariadne there, however, but Arthur. 

Eames was too tired, still partly asleep, and couldn't react right away. He wanted to believe that killing Murray, seeing him dead and bleeding in front of him, fuck - even that _telling_ Arthur, as much as he never wanted to do it, would have made some difference, would make him more comfortable around him, but his brain still seemed slow, his thoughts jumbled and unclear. He didn't get his usual panic from the sight of Arthur, but he wasn't sure his body and brain were together enough for any reaction.

Arthur wasn't on his laptop or messing around with the notebook he always had near him, but was just sitting, staring at the ugly blanket on the bed. He glanced up after a second, looked surprised to see Eames awake.

'Eames,' he said, and his voice had an edge of nervousness to it that Eames wasn't used to. 'Hey. I can leave,' he added quickly. 'Ariadne just went to grab some dinner. I - I get that you might not want to see me right now.' He looked like he was about to spring up from the bed, but stayed put, waiting for a cue from Eames.

Eames ignored everything he said, however, and sat up on the bed. He looked to the bedside table - where he _always_ kept his totem - and felt his anxiety rise, though still somewhat dulled, when he saw the empty table. 'Where's my totem?' he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt.

There was a beat before Arthur answered. 'I don't know - I didn't touch it.'

Eames was now more fully awake, the adrenaline from his nerves helping, and remembered more of the condition he was in when he fell asleep. He reached a hand into his trouser pocket and felt the poker chip there. He held it for a few seconds, feeling his anxiety ease somewhat, but didn't bring it out of his pocket. 'So, uh,' he said, after a moment, looking towards Arthur. 'What time is it?' 

'Almost eight.'

Eames nodded slowly, before bringing a hand up to rub at his head, to try to fix his hair. 'Shit. I slept forever.' His voice was scratchy.

Arthur ignored this. 'Eames… I won't get near you, but if I sit over here, can we talk?' 

There was something in his voice, something like guilt or pity, some emotion Eames couldn't quite place but didn't like. 'Where's Murray?' he asked instead of answering, his tone edging on mocking. He looked towards Arthur.

'He's gone,' Arthur said dismissively.

Eames raised an eyebrow, still eyeing Arthur. 'Gone?'

'It's fine. Well,' Arthur corrected himself. 'It'll be fine.'

He wasn't convincing, and Eames was about to tell him so, maybe to apologise again for killing Murray - even though he still wasn't sorry the son of a bitch was dead, when Arthur spoke again.

'Look, I'm not going to pretend I don't understand why you didn't tell anyone --' Eames turned away from Arthur, looking back towards the window. 'Why you didn't tell me. But… holy shit, Eames.'

Staring resolutely out the window, Eames didn't look at him. He didn't want to see his face, didn't want to see the pity he _knew_ would be on it, so he looked out the window, at the grey streets below them, and snaked his hand back into his pocket.

'I never knew this guy was such a - such a _psycho_ , such a fucking _sadist_. I promise.' 

Arthur sounded more apologetic than anything, and it wasn't what Eames had been expecting. He kept his eyes on the window, his hand on his totem, and didn't respond.

'I am so sorry.' Arthur's voice was low, and maybe the most serious Eames has ever heard him. 'I am so sorry he did this to you because of me.'

The room fell into silence as Eames kept staring out the window, even as he felt Arthur's gaze on him. He moved his head slightly, so that he could see Arthur out of the corner of his eye, as Arthur raised a hand to rub at his forehead, grimacing. 

'Was there anyone else? I mean - was it just him, just Murray, or is there anyone else I have to track down and shoot in the head?'

Eames turned his head further towards the window, so he couldn't study Arthur even slightly, and didn't say anything for a moment. He was expecting Arthur to be upset, angry that he had killed Murray when that hadn't been part of the plan, that he had left Arthur to clean up after him. He hadn't expected this reaction. Eames was good at reading people, at knowing how they would react - he had to be, to be a good forger, to be a good _thief_ \- and he usually had Arthur pegged. He was shaken that he could have his reaction so wrong.

'I don't,' he began, his voice still scratchy. He started again. 'He was the only one familiar with dreaming.' He stopped to clear his throat, and he thought back quickly, not letting his mind hover too long, to the other men who had been with Murray in the dream - the balaclava-clad men who had spoken with Kenyan accents. 'There were others, but I don't know - I think they were hired thugs. They could have even been projections he brought into the dream, I don't know. They didn't seem to really know what was going on.'

'But they didn't…' Arthur trailed off, but Eames knew what he meant.

'No.'

There was silence for another moment, before Eames spoke again, trying to keep his focus on this, on the elements he could think about rationally. 'The chemist must have known everything.'

'No, I don't think so,' Arthur said. 'He would have told me, trust me.' The coldness of his voice was unusual, even for Arthur, and Eames felt another flash of surprise at this response. 'I got everything out of him.' There was another beat. 'Did you tell anyone?'

Eames couldn't help his reaction - he laughed, though it came out sounding so bitter and dry that it barely sounded like laughter. 'Ha, no.'

'Oh god, Eames - Eames, I am _so sorry.'_

The timbre of Arthur's voice made Eames angry again, made his face flush with heat. 'Stop.'

'What?' Arthur said, clearly bewildered. 'I'm sorry, I --'

'Stop!' Eames repeated, and he turned to face Arthur finally. 'Stop saying you're fucking sorry when you didn't do anything,' he spit out.

'You're right,' Arthur said slowly, after a second. 'I didn't - I'm just sorry for anything I _did_ do.'

'You didn't do anything.' Eames' voice was flat, but he was still looking at Arthur. He didn't want to do this - he didn't want to have to absolve Arthur from any guilt he thought he had, when he had done _nothing_ and it took everything Eames had to remember that.

'I knew something was wrong,' Arthur admitted. 'I knew you were dealing with something and all I did was goad you via text message and get into a fight with you.'

'It wasn't your problem,' Eames said dismissively, turning his gaze to the floor. 'It had nothing to do with you, not really.'

Arthur paused. 'That's not true. You _know_ that's not true.'

Eames was saved from answering by the sound of the hotel room door being unlocked. He tensed, his shoulders taut, but Arthur threw a glance at him. 'Ariadne must be back with dinner,' he said. He sounded casual, but Eames knew it was for his benefit.

'Hey,' Ariadne said, coming through the door a second later. 'Eames, you're awake!' She threw a smile at him, and Eames thought she almost looked normal, even if her smile was a bit nervous. He tried to grin back at her, but wasn't sure he pulled it off. She was carrying some brown paper bags, and set them on Arthur's bed, turning to them. 'I brought food for both of you - I didn't know what you'd want so I went all American and got us burger and fries.'

Arthur made some pleased-sounding noise, but Eames turned away. He wasn't hungry, and as much he usually loved Ariadne, her presence reminded him of how much he just wanted both of them to go away, how much he wanted to be alone. 

Trying to block both her and Arthur out, he grabbed his totem from his pocket, looking at its familiar grooves and marks. He noticed, for the first time, a speck of something brownish on his shirtsleeve - just a few drops, the largest of which was about the size of a fifty-pence coin. With a jolt, he remembered Arthur telling him to take his jacket off in the warehouse. He was looking at blood - Murray's blood. He stared at it morbidly for a moment, his totem forgotten, his mind overtaken with memories of Murray's taunts and what he'd done and the final image of his head blown open, his blood dripping all over the floor.

On the other bed, Ariadne and Arthur were getting fries and burgers out of the bags, and Eames' vaguely heard one of them ask him a question. He was gone, however, every sense except vision dulled as he stared at the blood on his sleeve. It was done, finished. Murray was dead. Everything that had made Eames miserable the last few months, had made him put his life on hold and destroyed whatever he'd had with Arthur, what had made him do nothing but drink - not even bloody _dream_ \- in months - it was done. He'd killed Murray, he was dead, it was done.

Eames could hear nothing but his own heart beating, as he sat frozen, transfixed on the bed. He wasn't sure how long he sat there before he registered Ariadne calling his name, sounding worried. He looked up, meeting her gaze, as his sense all rushed back. The smell of their dinner, of the salt on the fries, combined with Arthur and Ariadne's scrutinising gazes made Eames' stomach twist violently. 

He stood up hastily, ignoring Arthur and Ariadne, and rushed to the bathroom, brushing past both of them. He slammed the door shut behind him, and barely made it to the toilet before he was sick.

He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and had been too nervous to eat much then, but he retched for a few minutes, unable to catch his breath fully. Every time he thought he was done, his mind would flash to the blood still on him, Murray's blood _marking_ him, and he soon began to feel dizzy. He started to undo the buttons on his shirt desperately, his hands shaking, even as he willed his stomach to calm down. Frustrated with his unsteady hands, he ripped the last few buttons, desperate to get it off him, as he leaned back, taking a deep breath as his stomach settled. Balling the shirt up, he threw it into the corner of the room, as far from him as he could manage.

He backed up, still on the ground, and pressed his back to the tile wall, leaning his head against it. The tiles were cool and he huddled against them as he tried to stop shaking, even as his heart rate slowly came down and he started to catch his breath.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, just breathing, before there was a knock on the door. Eames didn't answer, eyeing it warily, but it didn't matter - after a moment it opened slightly, Arthur on the other side.

'I'm going to come in.' He waited, but when Eames didn't move or protest, he stepped in, pausing by the door. Eames ignored him, putting his head down and concentrating his gaze on the floor.

After a second, Arthur moved - shutting the door, he walked over to the sink. Eames followed what he could see of him - his shoes - and didn't raise his head. Arthur filled a glass with water, and leaned down slightly, trying to hand it to Eames. He waited a second, before realising Eames wasn't going to accept it, and instead placed it on the ground next to him. He took a step back.

There was silence for a few moments, until Eames couldn't take it anymore. 'You --' he stopped, his voice raw. Grabbing the glass of water, he took a few swallows, hoping Arthur couldn't see that his hands were still shaking slightly. 'Cheers,' he said softly, still not looking at Arthur. Arthur didn't reply, so after another second Eames went on. 'You were right yesterday. Not about inception - it wasn't an inception - but about… you were right. I'm sure you know that now.'

Arthur still didn't reply, but Eames, watching his shoes, could see him take a step sideways. He sat on the edge of the tub, still quiet.

'You know, I've been panicking every time I've been anywhere near you. Ever since… for months. I thought I would die. Every time. I...' Eames kept his eyes on the floor and willed Arthur to not answer, not to interrupt. 'It was like that panic attack you saw in London - all the time.' Eames laughed, dryly. 'Even your texts made me hyperventilate.'

There was a moment's pause, before Eames looked up. He met Arthur's gaze and his eyes were wet, glassy, but his cheeks were dry. 'But its not so bad anymore,' he said, unsure how true that was. 'Maybe killing Murray fixed it.'

If Arthur got the irony of Eames, huddled on the bathroom floor only half-dressed, telling him things were better now, fixed, he didn't say anything.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

The first thing Eames did when he woke up was grab for his totem, on the bedside table, like always. The poker chip was there, and he lay back on the bed, wondering if that was a good thing or not. He wasn't sure if he would have rather the whole day before been a dream.

He flicked a glance at Arthur's bed. Ariadne had apparently spent the night, as her small figure was huddled on one edge of the double bed, Arthur on the other. Eames only vaguely remembered falling asleep, but he supposed it had been late by the time he'd done so. He hoped that was why Ariadne had stayed over, and not out of some displaced worry towards him.

He grimaced. The hope was naive, and he knew it - he knew Ariadne was worried, and he couldn't really blame her. Eames hadn't spoken to her the night before - he had sat with Arthur in the bathroom for a long time, both of them silent, before coming out and collapsing in bed - but he knew his behaviour had been… not like him. To say the least.

Lifting his arm, he looked at his watch. Almost six. He was wide awake, now, despite it being so early. He wanted a shower, but he didn't want to wake up either of his roommates. He couldn't face whatever conversation he would have to have. He glanced at them again, wondering what time zone Arthur was used to, when he would start waking up. Deciding he didn't want to be around for that, Eames snatched a change of clothes from his bag and ducked into the bathroom. After getting dressed and brushing his teeth, he grabbed his totem, wallet, and key card and left, shutting the door silently behind him.

He didn't have any plans of where to go, but just getting out, away from Arthur and Ariadne, was an improvement.

He didn't walk far. There was a cafe across the street from the hotel, open despite the early hour, and he ducked in, sitting down at an empty booth next to the window. A bored looking waitress wondered over after a minute.

' _Un serré, s'il vous plait_ ,' he said, his accent only slightly rusty. The waitress nodded before trotting off.

He should have brought his passport - that is, the passport he was currently using. Eames wasn't sure he wanted to go back to the hotel at all, that he wanted to see Arthur and Ariadne again. He wished he'd had the foresight to bring the documents he'd used to travel into the EU with. Everything else in the hotel room he could leave, either replace or get from Ariadne or Arthur later, but he couldn't be bothered going through the elaborate motions of getting or forging new documentation just to return to Mombasa.

He was thinking about his options, who he knew in Paris and what he had access to, when Arthur slipped into the booth across from him.

Eames looked up, but he was too tired to panic. His senses still seemed too dull from yesterday to feel much of anything. 

'I heard you leave,' Arthur said by way of explanation. 'I didn't want you to go back to Africa.'

Eames scoffed. 'I wouldn't do that,' he lied. 'I'm just getting coffee.'

There was an awkward silence for a moment, as Arthur didn't say anything and Eames spent the time looking anywhere but at his table mate. Eventually, Arthur took the menu from the table and Eames was vaguely jealous he hadn't thought to grab it first - it was a great prop, an excuse to keep your eyes on something. Arthur only scanned it for a moment before lifting his head and meeting Eames' gaze. Eames glanced away, turning his gaze to the window, the table top, anywhere.

'I'm getting something,' he announced. He put the menu back down on the table before nudging it over towards Eames. 'You should get something too - you can't have anything left in your stomach after last night.'

Eames ignored the menu and the mention of the night before. 'So this is just a friendly breakfast then?' he said, his tone bordering on sarcasm. 

Arthur shrugged, looking tired. 'What do you want it to be, Eames?'

Eames pursed his lips and looked out the window.

The waitress returned to the table, bringing Eames' coffee and regarding Arthur expectantly. He ordered a coffee and a croissant, his French much smoother than Eames', while Eames reached for the sugar for his coffee. 

They sat there for a moment as Eames focused all his concentration on getting his coffee just right. He could only handle the heavy silence for so long, however, and after a minute put his spoon down and wet his lips, keeping his eyes on coffee cup.

'I'm sorry,' he said flatly. 'Yesterday was… unprofessional of me. I should have - I'm sorry for what happened. What I did.'

'Yes it was,' Arthur agreed, his voice quiet but sharp. 'You _never_ should have let me go in there without knowing the full story, with you having some concurrent plan to the one we worked up together, you never should have opened me up to the risks you _did_ open me up to - I mean, Jesus, Eames,' he paused here, taking a breath and lowering his voice further. 'He was tied up, concussed - and you shot him point blank --'

'I'm not sorry for that,' Eames said, jerking his head up and meeting Arthur's gaze. 'He drugged me and he - a-and kidnapped me,' he ground out, tripping slightly over his choice of words.

'Fine,' Arthur said dismissively. If he had noticed Eames slipping over the word, he didn't say anything.

Eames paused a minute, staring at his coffee but not drinking it. 'I am sorry,' he said finally, his voice softer, 'that I got you into this.'

'Yeah, well,' Arthur said, his eyes scanning the nearly empty cafe. 'We really shouldn't be talking about this here.' Despite himself, Eames wanted to smile. There was the Arthur he knew and missed, with paranoia, while possibly well-founded, abounding.

'So, it's sorted?'

Arthur looked at him. 'Yes, it's _sorted_ ,' he said with a tinge of sarcasm, the British slang weird on his lips. 'I called in favours I didn't want to,' his voice was tense. 'But it's sorted.' He waited a moment before speaking again, his voice softer. 'I'm not angry at you,' Arthur said.

'You should be.'

'I'm not.' He met Eames' gaze, and Eames couldn't think of what to say to that.

He was saved by the waitress arriving, bringing Arthur's coffee and pastry. Arthur tore at his croissant after she left, but didn't seem hungry. Realising he hadn't even tasted his coffee yet, Eames took a small sip. It was bitterer than he'd expected and he suddenly didn't want it.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the idle laughter of the two waitresses behind the counter, their gentle tones making their French indistinguishable.

Arthur seemed concentrated on his coffee - which he took black - and Eames took the opportunity to study him. He was acutely aware that his nerves hadn't attacked him during this entire conversation, his pulse had stayed even and his palms dry. Maybe he was really fixed, maybe killing Murray had really ended this whole nightmare.

He felt a rush of confidence at this, at the thought that he had _finally_ beaten Murray, and he suddenly felt adventurous. He could reach across the table and touch Arthur. Fuck, he could kiss him - he didn't think Arthur would object. The thought wasn't met by any apprehension besides a slight flutter in Eames' stomach. His chest constricted briefly at the thought of Arthur, that everything might be fine now that Murray was gone, but it wasn't out of fear.

'Arthur,' he said. He bumped Arthur's leg under the table with his own, testing this much contact out. He didn't blanche, didn't start to shake or anything, and this made him even bolder.

Arthur looked up from his pastry, his eyes looking vaguely blurry. He raised his eyebrows.

Eames didn't feel sick or scared. He felt exhilarated. 'I'm not really thirsty for coffee, are you?' 

Looking tired more than anything, Arthur said simply, 'Whatever you want, Eames.'

Eames didn't think over these words, what they could mean - besides mentally acknowledging them as exactly what he wanted to hear. 'Let's go back to the hotel, yeah? We can get room service again if you're hungry.'

Arthur peered at Eames as though he knew something was up, but Eames had a plan and felt adrenaline coursing through him in a way he hadn't in months - excitement, not fear. He was almost vibrating with the force of it and suddenly all he wanted to do was to touch Arthur, to celebrate with him.

Standing up, Eames dropped some Euros on the table, then led the way out of the cafe. They were barely outside when Eames grabbed Arthur by the wrist and pulled him to the side of the building, pushing him against the brick wall.

'Eames, what the fuck are --'

Eames kissed him.

His eyes closed, he crushed his lips again Arthur's, concentrating on what he was doing in a way he hadn't done since he was a teenager. Arthur went still for a moment, but Eames moved his hand to Arthur's shoulder and could feel him beginning to warm up.

Eames shifted and opened his lips, his tongue playing gently with Arthur's lower lip before his mouth opened, allowing Eames in.

Arthur broke away after a moment and Eames ached at the loss of contact. 'Are you - are you okay?'

Eames smiled, feeling like he was on some sort of drug. Everything seemed in sharp focus; his nerves were making everything bright, far away and yet close at the same time - but he wasn't scared of Arthur and that meant he was fine. 'Mmhmm,' he said simply, before leaning into Arthur again.

It only took a split second for Arthur to give in again and he snaked a hand around Eames' waist gently, hesitantly, his other still holding himself steady on the brick wall. Eames felt a brief flash of anxiety, as though Arthur was about to hold him in place in some way, but his grip was loose so Eames relaxed.

This time Eames separated them, only slightly, as he shifted one of his legs between Arthur's. 'I have an idea,' he said, his mouth next to Arthur's neck. 'Ariadne is still asleep in our hotel room, so why not get another?' He kissed Arthur's neck, unable to stop himself from more contact. 'I'm sure we could keep ourselves amused for a few hours until lunch.' His head was swimming, slightly, and everything felt a little unreal.

'Eames,' Arthur's tone was hesitant. 'Aren't we moving a bit fast here?'

Eames laughed. 'Fast? It's been months.'

'You know what I mean.'

'It's fine.' Eames pressed more firmly against Arthur. 'Murray's dead and everything is fine now.' He couldn't tell if he was reminding Arthur or himself.

'That's not --' Arthur stopped Eames from kissing him again, turning his head so that Eames hit his cheek. He pulled his head back so that he could look at Eames. 'You're sure?'

'Yes,' Eames said simply, before leaning back again.

They only kissed for another few seconds, Eames enjoying all of it, before Arthur stopped again. He turned his head away and moved his arm back to his side.

Eames wasn't deterred - he pressed his lips into his neck, but Arthur pulled away, pushing Eames' shoulder when he didn't let up.

Eames stepped back, instantly angry. 'What?''

'I just - this isn't.' Arthur stopped. 'We shouldn't do this now.'

Eames looked at him, his blood suddenly audibly coursing through his ears. Who was Arthur to decide that? Whatever slight misgivings Eames might have had melted away, and he felt more determined. He was fine; what had happened was _over_ and he wasn't going to let Arthur tell him otherwise.

'Eames, it's not - I still want you,' Arthur said evenly. He studied Eames. 'Why don't we just give it some time, okay?'

A shot of anger hit Eames like someone had punched him. What did Arthur fucking know about time? It had been months since this all began, months that had forced Eames to put his entire bloody life on hold - no dreaming, no jobs, no sex, nothing. He didn't need anymore time. Murray was dead and this meant he could get on with his life, starting right now, with Arthur.

'Come now, darling,' Eames struggled to keep his voice calm. Arthur looked away at the pet name and Eames mentally congratulated himself, knowing its effect on him. He once again pressed their bodies together and Arthur didn't pull away. 'I want you. Don't you remember what a good time we had together?' He leaned in so that he was close to Arthur's ear. 'Let me get us a hotel room.'

Arthur didn't answer for a second, and Eames kissed at his neck again. But then - 'No.' Arthur seemed more determined after his moment of weakness, and pushed Eames away again, harder. He took a step to the side, away from Eames, but kept his eyes on him. 'We can go eat or get some coffee we actually end up drinking or go see if Ariadne is awake or we can go to Mombasa or the states or, fuck, wherever you want. But we're not getting another hotel room.'

Eames was properly angry now, but wasn't going to give up. He took a step so that he was equal with Arthur and pretended to concede. 'Okay, fine, you're right.' he said, his voice even, with just the right amount of disappointment in it. 'Let's go back up to the hotel room and see if Ariadne's awake, yeah?' Arthur looked relieved, but Eames wasn't letting him go so easily. 'But - just kiss me a little more first, okay, darling?' He could see the moment when Arthur gave in. Resisting the urge to gloat, Eames leaned forward, meeting Arthur's lips.

They stay together for another moment, Arthur's back once again against the wall, until Eames moved slightly to put his leg between Arthur's again. Arthur tried half-heartedly to shift so that he couldn't, but Eames deepened the kiss and he stopped after a second.

Pressing his body closer, Eames sucked lightly on Arthur's tongue. He moved his leg, pressing it against Arthur, and he could feel the beginning of Arthur's erection, his cock against Eames' leg.

Eames stopped, suddenly, and stumbled back. His vision blurred as he remembered his face, pressed against Arthur - _Murray's_ \- crotch, fighting against the hands that held him in place. He tried to remind himself where he was, that he was not _there_ , as he felt shame course through him. He struggled not to vomit, pass out, die. He managed a glance at Arthur, trying to breathe and appear calmer than he felt.

Arthur was wiping his mouth, not looking at him. 'Just give it time, Eames,' he said looking towards Eames, but concentrating on a point over his shoulder.

Time. Fucking time. Eames felt his hands close into fists, and his vision dimmed again, this time with anger. Murray was _dead_ , he shouldn't need anymore time for something that didn't even happen - for something that was no more serious than a child's nightmare. How could Arthur think he knew anything about what Eames had gone through, how fucking long he needed to get over it?

Arthur still wasn't looking at him and this only made it worse. Arthur didn't give a shit about Eames and _time_ , he just didn't want to touch used goods - dream or not. Eames' fists clenched tighter and he brought them up, drawing his left hand back.

He didn't hit Arthur, though he wanted to. He hit the brick wall beside Arthur's head, as hard as he could, so hard he could feel something break. No pain coursed through him, though, and he pulled his fist back, hitting the wall again. Arthur flinched, but didn't move.

Eames didn't look at Arthur as he stepped back, dully noting the pain flowing through his hand, that it was pulsing with his raised heart rate. He ignored it. He wanted to say something to Arthur, something more eloquent than 'fuck you', but he couldn't think well enough to even get that out. After a moment he turned away, still breathing unsteadily with anger, and began to walk purposely back to the hotel.

Arthur watched him; didn't move to stop him.

Once back in the room, Eames collected all that he'd brought - it wasn't much and he hadn't spread anything out, besides the blood-stained shirt still in the bathroom and screw it, Arthur could have the damn thing. He ignored the still-sleeping Ariadne and left, cradling his hand the whole time.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence. This part contains VIOLENCE, drug use, and attempted rape (depending on how you read it).
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

His hand was broken.

'So tell me, how did you break it again?'

Eames liked Yusuf for three reasons: he was an amazing chemist; he had about the same moral compass as Eames - not much of one - which often made nights out an adventure; and he never asked questions. Eames was going to have to reconsider their entire friendship if that last one disappeared.

'I told you,' he said, his voice steady, calm. 'It was part of a job.'

'I didn't know you were back _on_ jobs,' Yusuf said, in an exaggeratedly dry, surprised tone.

'Yeah, well, that's why I've been out of Mombasa and haven't seen you, as I told you,' Eames lied, and it came off effortlessly, sounded natural. He suspected Yusuf wouldn't buy it, but that wouldn't be because of Eames' bad performance.

They were mercifully interrupted when Yusuf's friend - a so-called doctor known for specialising in people who didn't want to go to hospitals - came back into the room with the supplies he needed. Eames' arm was set and wrapped tightly in a matter of minutes.

They went out drinking to celebrate.

\---

Three days later, lifting a gin and tonic to his mouth, Eames realised he hadn't really been sober since seeing the doctor, immediately after getting off the first plane out of Paris. He froze for a moment, drink suspended in the air, and considered this. His eyes fell on his left hand, still bandaged and sore, and he downed his drink, deciding he was just saving money on pain medication. He nodded at the bartender at the nearly empty bar, before heading back to the roulette table.

\---

Several days later (two? No, three?) Eames found himself in a swanky hotel deep in the touristy area of Mombasa. He usually stayed well clear of this particular hotel - after fleecing a few too many unsuspecting tourists a year or so back, Eames had learned the hard way that the hotel security guards were a little too chummy with the local police - and couldn't remember _exactly_ how he had gotten there. He could recall enough flashes of the evening, however, to know that had more to do with the amount of alcohol in his system and nothing to do with dreaming.

Just in case, he played with the poker chip in his trouser pocket, just long enough to make sure it was exactly how he remembered it. It was. Still awake. _Fantastic._

This much he did know: The guy who was closing the door behind him - Marcos? Carlos? Something like that, something Spanish or Italian and posh, Marcos sounded right - had impressive amounts of cash to throw around and had happily been throwing it at Eames all evening. He'd supplied Eames with all the top-shelf alcohol he'd wanted and had been lapping up Eames' lazy shite attempts at flirtation like they were the sexist lines he'd ever heard. And Eames knew that going back to his room had sounded like a brilliant idea just a few minutes - hours? - ago. 

Eames didn't usually do this sort of thing these days. He didn't usually follow rich strangers around just because they hit on him brazenly in a casino - he didn't even let anyone buy him a drink anymore if he thought he had an ulterior motive - and Marcos definitely had an ulterior motive. But - fuck it - things with Arthur might have gone badly, but Eames knew that _something_ must have been fixed in all that had happened. And Marcos was attractive, Eames had to give him that - tall and muscular, with short dark hair. 

Most importantly, Marcos was not almost exactly Eames' height, he was not skinny with surprising muscles hidden under expensive suits, he did not wear his dark hair long and gelled back, and he didn't speak with an annoyingly straightforward American accent.

'So what do you think of the room, James?' Eames was torn back into the present by Marcos addressing him. Eames had given him the name James because it was the most unremarkable English alias he had. Marcos had gotten a kick out of finding an English man in Mombasa, and Eames hadn't seen any reason not to play into that.

'James,' Marcos said again, and Eames tried to get his mind to cooperate, to focus on what Marcos had asked him. All the drinks he'd had, over the past few hours and over the past few days, were clouding his sense, dulling his reactions and making any sort of conversation hard to follow.

'Its great,' Eames said vaguely, hoping this answered his question. The room was impressive - it was a suite, an expensive one, and they were standing in the main room, a sitting room with a mini-kitchen. There were three doors at the end of a short hallway and Eames knew at least one of them must lead to an equally impressive bedroom. The thought hit him that he would see it soon, and he suddenly felt the tiniest bit more sober. 

Stamping down a brief rise of nerves, he cleared his throat. He was _not_ going to do this, not going to talk himself into another panic attack like the embarrassing act he'd had with Arthur. He couldn't help but take a step away from Marcos, however, as he tried to look natural and cool. 'Do you have anything more to drink?' 

'Not really,' Marcos said, sounding apologetic. Eames was about to argue this - surely a room this nice had a well-stocked refrigerator or cupboard somewhere - when Marcos offered an alternative. 

Taking a pouch of white powder from a bag on the counter in front of him, Marcos shook it for Eames to see. 'Will this do?' he asked, smiling.

Eames only hesitated for a second, before nodding. Sure.

Marcos didn't take long in laying the drug out in lines on the counter, obviously not new at this. He plucked a straw from a cup full of them on the counter - Eames had a drunken thought that the hotel must get a lot of drug users if all rooms came equipped with such a large collection of straws - and graciously offered the first taste to Eames, holding out the straw.

Eames took it, leaned over, and closed his eyes as he snorted the thick line. Fuck, he'd forgotten how much this part sucked. He stood back up after taking the line, rubbing his nose and throwing his head back. His eyes watered and he felt like he was choking for a second, as he tried not to cough. The pain faded after a few seconds, replaced by the buzz of the drug hitting him harder than any drink he'd had in the past week.

Marcos hadn't taken his own line yet, but was watching Eames, with an expectant smile on his face. Eames was reminded, just for a second, why this sort of thing was not his normal m.o. - Eames liked sex, or had liked sex, had been all about sex and hookups at bars with attractive people. But he was safe - there were security concerns to think about, concerns that normal people not involved in as many illegal activities as Eames didn't have to worry about, and Eames had never been so rash before this as to go home with someone who had made such a spectacle of himself earlier, throwing money around like it was rubbish. He'd never taken drugs first when offered, never taken coke off some stranger.

His concern faded slightly as Marcos leaned down to snort his own line, but Eames was still aware of the situation he had put himself in, even as he could feel the spread of the cocaine in his blood, making him feel hot and content all at once. He'd always been so careful, but hadn't thought about security at all the last few days. Hadn't thought of anything, really, as long as he could help it.

Marcos recovered from the drugs more quickly than Eames had, obviously used to snorting the powder, and he was standing in front of Eames, the drug forgotten on the counter behind him, before Eames' brain had caught up with his movement. He leaned in closer, and Eames felt another jolt of panic. He stopped Marcos quickly, putting a hand on his shoulder and trying not to shrink back from that touch alone. He wasn't stalling, he wasn't, but he could feel the coke kicking in and he hadn't done anything like this in ages - he just wanted to enjoy the high for a few more seconds.

Marcos looked perplexed at Eames' rebuffing, but stopped, still so close to Eames they were almost touching.

'This is… this is good stuff,' Eames said dully. He could feel the cocaine spread through his bloodstream, feel it hitting all the new parts of his body one by one. It was intoxicating in every sense of the word - his heart was beating quickly, his brain suddenly much clearer, and Eames wanted more. After days filled with the sluggishness of alcohol, this was a welcome change.

Marcos was smiling, watching Eames. 'Straight from Cordoba,' he said, his accent seeming more pronounced. 'Only the best. Another line?'

Eames couldn't agree fast enough, leaning over with his straw as Marcos stepped back to watch him.

It burned just as much this time as the last line had, but Eames didn't care. He rubbed at his nose, taking deep breaths through his mouth.

He felt like a fucking rockstar. Everything suddenly seemed a lot clearer - this was how he should feel _all the time_. Fuck Arthur. Fuck everything that happened and fuck all the worry Eames had felt for the past few days - fuck, for the past few _months_. He'd won - he'd killed Murray and it didn't matter how much stupid shit he'd done to him in some stupid dream. Murray was dead in real life and that's what mattered.

Eames wasn't entirely too far gone to realise this new attitude probably had something to do with the coke, but he decided this didn't matter. He laughed to himself, suddenly almost amused by the entire situation.

Marcos stood up from finishing his own line. 'Why so happy, James?' he asked after a moment, stepping back so he was almost touching Eames.

'Nothing,' Eames said, getting a hold of himself but unable to lose the smile on his face. 'I just… this is good stuff,' he repeated. He tried to concentrate on Marcos, who laughed at his complement, but Eames could feel everything in ways he'd forgotten coke did to him. His body felt alive, like all of his skin was extra sensitive, and so when Marcos touched his shoulder a second later, it was an entirely new sensation and not an entirely unpleasant one.

Marcos leaned in, catching Eames' lips in an open-mouthed kiss, and Eames kissed back automatically. His mind, however, flashed to Paris.

The coke was making everything seem clear, as if Eames was seeing everything in some sort of hyper-focus. He was reminded of how he had felt this way, on adrenaline alone, when he was kissing Arthur and almost laughed again, although he didn't find any of it amusing, all of a sudden. Eames' life was going in circles, going nowhere and keeping him in the same damn place. He broke the kiss, shaking his head and blinking his eyes quickly. He wasn't making sense, not even to himself. Too much... everything. 

Marcos looked confused, but not undeterred; his fingers, still on Eames' shoulder, tightened, not uncomfortably, as he leaned in again to continue the kiss.

Eames stepped back, dodging Marcos's lips and breaking his hold on his shoulder.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this again.

He was fucked up in some hotel room and suddenly, through the buzz of the cocaine in his system, Eames could only think of how stupid this all was. Sex aside, Eames had enemies - that much had been made clear in the past few months. He shouldn't be there, shouldn't have let himself get in such a stupid situation, even if he was fairly sure Marcos was harmless.

It didn't have anything to do with thinking about Arthur and Paris. It was just a stupid situation to be in, and somehow the cocaine was cutting through the clutter of alcohol in Eames' mind to let him see that. His mind was still skipping, careening - thinking of circles and how Eames was stuck and nothing had changed, nothing had really - but Eames struggled to hold onto his thoughts, to find a way out of this stupid situation he had put himself in.

He had a sudden strike of paranoia as he looked at Marcos, who was once again watching him, seeming confused. 'I…' he began, but stopped. He blinked again, striving to keep his mind clear, before saying, 'I can't - I'm sorry, I have to go.'

'What?' Marcos said, the furrowed lines on his forehead deepening.

'I'm sorry,' Eames said again, taking a step back and glancing towards the door. 'It's been lovely, darling, but I'm afraid I have to end the evening here.'

'What the fuck,' Marcos growled. He didn't move, but his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed as he studied Eames. 'You think you can tease me all evening, take my alcohol and drugs, and then leave?'

Eames wasn't impressed. 'Yes,' he said simply. He turned to head for the door, but Marcos moved more quickly and got there before him.

'I don't think so,' he said. His tone was dark, and Eames felt a bolt of fear, but Marcos adjusted it quickly. 'Don't be coy, James, come to bed with me,' he said, his voice light again, flirtatious.

Eames wouldn't usually be as nervous as he suddenly was. He knew how to take care of himself, he always had, and he'd been in too many fights to count, both in the real world and in dreams, fights with people a lot harder than this rich cokehead. But Eames was also aware of how drunk he was, that the two lines of cocaine had hit him a lot harder than they had Marcos, and he was painfully aware of all the muscle he'd lost in the past few months. Marcos was a lot bigger than he was, taller too, and Eames struggled not to take a step back, instead meeting Marcos's glare from his place in front of the door.

'I'm sorry,' Eames said, trying a slightly different tactic. 'It's --' he was cut off by Marcos grabbing his wrist. His grasp wasn't tight, not really, but it was all the provocation Eames needed. He didn't want anyone touching him when he didn't want it, not even if he was the one stupid enough to be in this situation in the first place. He didn't think, just struck out blindly, connecting with Marcos' face with his bandaged hand.

The punch was messier than anything, and although Marcos cried out, obviously surprised, it was Eames that bent forward, cradling his hand. The pain erupting from it was white hot and enough to make Eames dizzy.

He was struggling to stay conscious, trying to ignore the growing black dots in front of his eyes, when Marcos grabbed him and attempted to make him stand, to face him. Eames wasn't ready for it, wasn't ready for any of this - he wasn't supposed to be high and drunk and generally fucked up in some hotel room with some guy who turned out to be kind of an arse and Eames really didn't want him manhandling him like that.

His anger - at Marcos, at himself, at the situation in general - made the pain in his hand fade somewhat, and Eames stood up, trying to shrug Marcos's hands off. 'Don't fucking touch me,' he said, as Marcos's hands lingered, and when he didn't move them fast enough, Eames went to hit him again.

Marcos was expecting it this time, however, and blocked Eames easily, bringing his other hand up to jab Eames in the face. Eames couldn't help but cry out as he stumbled back - he just couldn't dominate this fight as he knew he usually would. He was too high, too tired, and Marcos was too big. They tussled, but to Eames' mind it was slow, as if underwater.

It was only a few minutes later - although it felt like hours, kind of, and also like no time at all, Eames couldn't wrap his head around anything and getting punched in the face certainly wasn't helping - that Marcos completely got the upper hand on Eames. He shoved him, hard, throwing him to the ground. Eames' shoulder hit the edge of a table on the way, still near the door, and he grunted as he lost his breath.

They were both bleeding, Eames could realise that much, and he felt like he was dying for a second before he got air back into his lungs. He was still gasping slightly as he became more aware of the scene - he was on his back, half against the wall next to the door, and Marcos was leaning over him and holy fuck, this was exactly like the dream. Everything went black for a second, just a flash, as Eames felt his hands, his whole body shaking. It was just the same - he was beat up, thrown to the ground, someone leaning over him, trying to force him to do something and Christ, even his hand was injured in the same way.

Eames fought to clear his mind, not to think about whatever this reminded him of, struggling to remain in the present, in that same goddamn posh hotel room. He was only half-aware of his surroundings when Marcos stood back somewhat, apparently convinced Eames had given up.

Eames hadn't. He saw his chance and took it. He struggled to his knees and lunged forward, using his momentum to grab Marcos around the waist and force him to land hard on the floor a few feet from the door.

He wasn't sure how much time passed. It couldn't have been long, but the first thing Eames became aware of again was suddenly how much his shoulder hurt, how it was already sore from his weaker arm, his right arm, pulling back and pounding Marcos, again and again. 

He paused, finally stopping as realisation hit him. 

Eames was straddling Marcos's chest, and he must have hit him twenty times for his face to be that bloody, to look that bad. Eames felt sick as he realised Marcos wasn't just bleeding, he was unconscious, and Eames jumped back, trying not to vomit as he looked at the blood coating his hands.

Eames was frozen, unsure of what to do, when Marcos stirred. Eames felt a rush of relief - he couldn't have been as hurt as Eames originally thought, because it only took a second for Marcos to raise his head, gingerly, and to direct his gaze - his face bloody, parts of it already swollen - to Eames, just a few feet away. He fought to sit up as Eames stepped back - not sure what he was more afraid of, Marcos being able to recuperate somehow and attack him again or losing control and hitting Marcos more.

Marcos snarled, bringing a hand up to his freely bleeding nose. 'Get out,' he howled, his voice muffled and hoarse. 'Get out, you fucking psycho.'

Eames' thoughts were a mess, between the adrenaline and the fear and the coke and the alcohol, but he recognised the command. He turned, fumbled to unlock the door, and fled the suite.

He made it through the hotel lobby without anyone stopping him, even though Eames knew he must have looked a mess. He knew he should find a bathroom, clean up the blood he could feel on his face and hands, should do something to make him look less like the fucking criminal he was, but he just wanted to be home, wanted to be away from all the stupid mistakes he kept making. 

Any euphoria Eames had felt from the coke was gone, and instead he felt sick, like his skin was too tight and everyone knew what was wrong with him, what he'd done.

He blindly walked for a few streets, the fresh air doing nothing to clear his head, and he had no thoughts about where he was headed. He stopped in an alleyway when he felt he was far enough away from the hotel, when he thought if he walked anymore he would pass out. He sagged against a wall, his forehead against the filthy bricks, and tried to get his vision to clear, to top his head spinning.

His stomach jumped suddenly and he leaned over farther, vomiting against the wall. He was surprised he had anything in his stomach to bring up, he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything like a proper meal. He struggled to slow his breathing when he was done, closing his eyes for a minute. Okay. He had to get home. That was all. Anything beyond that - any thoughts beyond getting the fuck back to his flat - could wait.

Bringing up a hand to wipe his mouth, Eames stopped at the last second, realising his hands were still red with blood. He didn't know if it was his - he was pretty sure his nose was bleeding and he had a cut on his cheek - or Marcos'. His thoughts flashed back to Murray, to his blood on his shirt, and he swallowed, trying not to be sick again.

He wasn't supposed to be like this. None of this was supposed to be like this, but Eames - Eames wasn't supposed to… He wasn't - he was good at what he did, fuck, he was the best, and he wasn't supposed to be in a fucking alleyway like a fucking homeless man. He wasn't supposed to beat up innocent albeit jerky guys, he wasn't supposed to have blood marking him, not Marcos's and not Murray's. Eames had never been the greatest guy, but he was supposed to be one of the good guys. He didn't know what the fuck had happened that he no longer knew if he was.

No. He did know what had happened, that much was fucking clear, and Eames felt a flooding surge of hot anger. This was _not_ his fault - well, it was, so much of it was, but he hadn't started this. He had been nothing but a fucking _pawn_ in some arsehole's vendetta against Arthur, a pawn that both of them had considered expendable.

Suddenly Eames was shaking again, but not from fear or feeling ill - from _rage_. His life had gone off the rails, had been effectively fucking destroyed and this was all - _all_ \- because of Arthur.

Eames wiped his hands, still shaking, on his trousers, no longer thinking of the blood on them. He knew what he had to do, all of a sudden, knew what would make this better. He fumbled in his pockets as he stumbled out of the alleyway, pausing at its entrance, and managed to get his mobile out of his pocket. 

It took some squinting and concentrating to get his phone to dial Arthur's number, but he managed, ignoring the blood and mess on his phone from his hands.

Eames leaned against the wall of whatever building he was beside, the street still empty in front of him, as the phone rang on Arthur's end. It didn't take him long to answer. Eames' pulse raced as he heard Arthur pick up and say his name in greeting.

Eames didn't let him say anything else. 'This is your fault, Arthur,' he jumped in immediately, his tone so biting and rushed that his words came out slurred, messy. He heard Arthur make a noise, the start of a reply, but Eames rushed on, concentrating on making his speech more intelligible. 'I - my life - everything is so fucking messed up and you - this is your fault, all your fucking fault.' Eames paused only long enough to swallow, to take a breath, acutely aware of the heat of tears in his eyes. 'I hate you, I hate that you did this to me - they kidnapped me and fucked me up because of you, because of _us_ , and I don't even know who I am anymore, I don't know what I'm doing - I, I almost fucking killed someone and I'm so fucked up right now and --' Eames broke off, unable to talk through the lump in his throat, afraid he would break into sobs. He dropped his phone to his side, clenching his jaw as he slammed his head back, hitting the brick wall and concentrating on the dull pain it created. 

He took a deep breath before he brought the phone back up to his ear - still angry, still fucking livid, but back together, such as it was.

'-- tell me where you are, okay, Eames, just tell me that - are you at home? Are you --' Arthur was pronouncing every word carefully, but Eames hadn't called him to listen.

'Shut up, I'm not --' Eames stopped, unsure of what to say. He was aware that the tears he had tried to stop were falling freely down his face, and he wiped at them. His hand came back slightly red, his nose still trickling blood, and Eames felt another wave of revulsion. He struggled not to let his voice break as he said blankly, 'I can't do this, Arthur, its not fucking fair, I can't do this.' He didn't know what he meant, was aware enough of what was going on to understand that he wasn't making sense, but he paused, hoping Arthur would say something, magically be able to fix what Eames was pretty sure was too fucking messed up to be fixable.

'Eames, listen, okay? Can you get home? Wherever you are - are you safe, where _are_ you? - just get home, okay?'

Eames was coherent enough, barely, to realise he shouldn't tell Arthur he was standing on a street he didn't recognise, a few metres away from an alleyway he'd just been sick in. He stayed silent.

'Do you need someone to come get you? Just - give me a minute, I can get Yusuf to get you. Do you know where you are or --'

Eames cut him off. 'I'm going home,' he mumbled, and picking a direction, he started walking slowly, stumbling every few steps, keeping the phone to his ear like a lifeline.

'Okay, good,' Arthur said, and for the first time Eames noticed how panicked Arthur sounded, how his voice was uneven and hurried. 'Eames - listen, you need to get out of Mombasa. I'll come get you, just get home --'

'I don't need you to come get me, I'm not a fucking _baby_ ,' Eames said and couldn't keep the petulant tone out of his voice.

There was a split second pause before Arthur spoke again. 'Okay, okay - look, you need to be away from Mombasa right now, away from everything that's dragging you down, and with - with people who can take care of you.' Eames opened his mouth to argue, but Arthur hurried on. 'I know you're angry at me, and you're right to be, but I'm scheduling a flight for you right now - you're coming to Los Angeles, I can get you a plane ready to leave Mombasa in a few hours --'

'You're not fucking listening, Arthur!' Eames spit out and anger coursed through him again, making him feel even more nauseous and sick. He wiped at his nose again, his face wet with either blood or tears.

'I am. I am, Eames.' Arthur's tone was soft, sad, and that - more than anything that had happened that night, that broke Eames. He stopped walking again, suddenly unable to propel himself forward, and closed his eyes as he struggled not to cry. He took in deep gulps of air, trying to stay together as much as possible.

'Eames - can you get home okay? Can you tell me where you are?'

Eames gathered himself together enough to keep walking. He just had to get home. 'I can get home,' he said to Arthur, his tone messy and slurred again. He was tired, so fucking tired, all of a sudden, but he recognised a landmark at the upcoming intersection and was relieved to see he wasn't as far from his flat as he'd anticipated.

'Okay, good - stay on the line with me until you're there, okay? You can yell at me - I know you're angry, Eames, I know that you are - but just keep talking to me.'

Eames dutifully kept the phone to his ear, but was too tired to do anymore yelling. All the adrenaline he had been running on for days had left him, seemingly all at once, and it was taking all his energy to keep walking, to get back to his flat.

'…Eames? You still there?' Arthur said after a second, his pitch higher than normal, worry once again permeating his words.

Eames made a faint positive sound, and kept walking.

'Okay, good - listen, I'm getting you a plane right now. I'm gonna call in a favour and I'll have a plane for you at the airport in like…' there was a short pause and Eames could hear typing on the other line. 'In like 5 hours, okay? It will go straight to LA, you just need to get to the airport and get on it. Eames, can you do that?' There was another pause, but Eames said nothing. 'Eames? You have to answer me - can you do that?'

'Yeah,' Eames slurred, unsure what he was agreeing to.

'Eames, Jesus - please just tell me where you _are_ ,' Arthur said again, and even in his stupor Eames could hear his exasperation.

'I'm home. I'll be - I'm almost home,' Eames said, concentrating to make his voice clearer. He wasn't lying - he was only a street or two away from the building his flat was in, and when it finally came into view, Eames had never been so happy to see it in his life.

Arthur was still talking to him, undoubtedly asking him questions that Eames couldn't be bothered with, and he stopped outside the building, catching his breath again before attempting the two flights of stairs to his flat.

'I'm home,' he interrupted, taking the stairs slowly. All his anger at Arthur had faded - it seemed too exhausting to keep it up - and Eames was tired of the conversation. He just want to go to sleep, he didn't want to talk to Arthur or think about him or what he had done to him - he just wanted to sleep.

'Good.' There was a pause. 'Listen, Eames, I'm going to get --'

'A plane, I heard you,' Eames said, as he struggled over the last few steps to his floor.

'No - I mean, yes, I've got you a plane that will be there in five hours - but I'm going to --'

'I'm home now, Arthur,' Eames said, struggling to get his keys out of his pocket and keep the phone to his ear. He didn't look at his hands as he fumbled with the keyring, didn't want to see the blood he knew was still on them. 'I'm going - I'm going to sleep, I can't - I'm sorry. I --' he managed to open his door and staggered inside, closing it and slumping against it.

'Eames, listen - I'm glad you called, don't --'

'Let's talk tomorrow, yeah?' Eames interrupted. He didn't care what Arthur was telling him, what he was saying, and when Arthur didn't stop talking right away, Eames interrupted him again. 'I'm going to sleep, okay? You can - we can talk tomorrow.'

'Eames, for fuck's sake, listen to --'

Eames hung up, too tired to argue anymore. There were tears on his cheeks again, mingling with the blood still there, and Eames didn't know why - he had too many reasons to cry, too many stupid reasons and too many things he'd fucked up. He blearily walked over to his couch, dropping his phone near the table in front of it, and tried to concentrate enough to remember his anger at Arthur, to remember their conversation. He vaguely felt ill again, but he collapsed backward on the couch and was asleep or passed out before he could move.

\---

Eames could hear someone saying his name, could feel someone slapping at his face, and he reached a hand out without being fully conscious of the movement, trying to stop them from touching him again.

'Come on, Eames, wake up.'

Eames heard himself make a noise, but his eyes stayed closed.

'Eames. Come on.'

There was a blissful moment of silence before Eames felt someone pawing at his chest. It was too much and his eyes opened slowly, his vision hazy even when they were fully open.

Yusuf was in front of him, bending over him and, from what Eames could blearily see, was trying to get a hold of Eames enough to help him to sit up. Eames jerked away from his hands, suddenly much more awake, and sat up after a second, his head spinning at the movement.

'What - how did you - why are you in my flat?' he said, his voice still garbled, slurred. He swallowed and sat up straighter, but the movement was too much and he winced, grabbing his head and bending forward.

'Shit, Eames, what are you on?' Yusuf's tone was accusatory, but Eames was too tired to be angry. He didn't answer, however, and stayed bent forward, his eyes screwed shut.

'I broke in,' Eames heard Yusuf answer after another moment of silence. 'About twenty minutes ago - you certainly took your time waking up, what are you _on_?'

'Nothing,' Eames said finally, dropping his hands and looking at Yusuf, standing over him. 'I'm not on anything. Right now.' He looked around - his flat was a mess, with bottles and cans and half-empty take out containers from the last few days scattered around, and if Eames had been in any other mood he would have been at least vaguely embarrassed. As it was, he was just confused about how Yusuf had gotten in. 'What time is it?' he said, noting that it was lighter than it had been when he'd walked home, from what he remembered.

His heart sunk at the thought of his walk home, what little he remembered of it and his conversation with Arthur. 'Shit,' he said before Yusuf could respond, closing his eyes again briefly. 

'Its sixish,' Yusuf answered, and Eames opened his eyes in time to see Yusuf attempt to hand him a glass of water. Eames ignored it, and Yusuf placed it on the table in front of him. 'You're leaving in two hours, wake up.'

'What - what are you on about?' Eames asked, the bone-deep exhaustion he felt evident in the slow drawl of his voice.

He heard Yusuf answer, or at least heard him talking, but Eames faded out as his eyes drifted shut again on their own accord. He slumped forward, not quite asleep but not entirely conscious.

His eyes sprung open a second later when Yusuf shook him, his hands on Eames' shoulders. 'Eames!' His voice was sharp, painful to Eames' head. 'If you fall back asleep I'm taking you to a bloody hospital, so wake up.'

'G'off,' Eames slurred, trying to shrug Yusuf off. Yusuf let go of his shoulders, but sat down beside him, too close for Eames' comfort.

'Eames,' he said, his voice stern and humour-less, so unlike Yusuf's usual tone that Eames blinked, forcing his eyes open to look at him. 'If you don't start listening to me and conversing in a reasonable way, if you don't drink some bloody water and get up, I'm taking you to the hospital, do you understand?'

Eames shook his head, trying to make his mind clearer. He was confused, but not so confused that he didn't realise the gravity of Yusuf's ultimatum. 'I'm _conversing_ ,' he articulated the word, making sure it wasn't slurred. 'I just - how did you get in? _Why_ did you get in?'

Yusuf rolled his eyes. 'Listen, we can have this conversation another time, right now you need to get up and drink some water, eat something if you can, and take a shower. I don't know whose blood is all over you, but its rather distracting.'

Eames looked down at himself, moving slowly, as if through jelly, and saw that there was blood on his trousers, his shirt, his jacket. He got a flash of the night before - of him straddling a figure in the posh hotel room, hitting him - and felt acid rise in his throat.

Yusuf had obviously been expecting something like this, because as soon as Eames started to gag, he handed him a rubbish bin. Eames bent forward, coughing and choking into the bin, and trying not to think about blood. 

'That should wake you up a bit more.' Eames heard Yusuf say after he'd managed to calm his retching. Eames stayed bent over, head down, as Yusuf took the bin from his grasp and walked away for a minute. More and more of the night before was rushing back to Eames, and his head was swimming with it.

'Come on, Eames,' Yusuf said a few moments later, and once again he reached under Eames' arms, trying to force him up. Eames let him help him, swaying slightly with the movement as he stood, leaning heavily on Yusuf. 'You're getting a shower and then you have a plane to catch. Arthur will cut my balls off if you miss this, and I can't say I'd blame him.'


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

The flight from Mombasa to Los Angeles - even direct, on the swanky private jet Arthur had managed to acquire - was twenty hours.

Eames slept for most of them. 

He hadn't slept for more than a few hours at a time since getting back from Paris, and hadn't had a proper night's sleep for even longer than that. Perhaps it was the emotional exhaustion of the night before, or the last week catching up with him, or a side effect of all the drinking and the coke, but Eames got on the plane, crashed onto the leather couch, and managed to sleep away almost twelve hours of the flight.

Which left eight.

Eames hadn't had much time to pack before leaving his flat - Yusuf had been breathing down his neck the entire time and his mind had still been hazy from what had happened only a few hours previous - although Yusuf shoving him, fully clothed, into a lukewarm shower had helped with that, somewhat. He hadn't thought to bring anything to entertainment him on the plane, however, except his laptop, which bored him quickly.

It left Eames with nothing to do but think and that was dangerous. He needed _something_ to occupy his mind, something to stop him fixating on what was going to happen when the plane landed, to stop him from bring crushed by the guilt he felt from the night before - for getting himself into such a situation, for calling Arthur, and especially for what he had done to Marcos. Eames couldn't remember a lot of the details of all that had taken place, but coming to while punching Marcos stuck in his mind. He hoped he had overestimated the man's injuries, in his panicked, drugged stupor - Marcos had been a jerk, he remembered that much, but he wasn't sure he'd deserved what had happened - it hadn't been Marcos that Eames had been mad at, not really.

Eames rubbed his forehead, trying to lessen the pain growing in his head. Fuck. If Marcos was even that guy's name. Christ, how could he have been so _stupid?_

Casting these thoughts out of his head, Eames got up from the couch and explored the plane's interior. He found some magazines shoved between two seats near the front of the small cabin, two of which were thankfully in English, and attempted to concentrate on those. It didn't take long for him to get bored of this, too, and he was soon up again, examining the rest of the cabin. Although there were no attendants on the flight, Eames found the cupboards had been left well stocked. Avoiding the biscuits and snacks, unsure how his still-sour stomach would react to them, he only hesitated for a moment when he saw some miniature bottles of wine.

It took just a few of those to put him to sleep again, and he was only woken by the pilots announcing they were starting their descent into LAX.

\---

Arthur was waiting for him outside the security line.

Eames didn't make eye contact as he approached, instead looking around the airport, at his bag, at other passengers. He was still tired, despite getting more sleep during the flight than he probably had the last week in total, and he could still feel the wine in his system, which wasn't helping him to think clearly.

'Eames,' Arthur said on an exhale, when Eames finally got close enough that he had to look at him. 'You look…' Arthur paused, and Eames felt his judging gaze on him. 'Better than I thought you would.'

Eames thought of making a joke, to say something like the teasing comments he used to find effortless with Arthur, thought of apologising for the night before, but he didn't do either. 'Hi,' he said, instead.

'Come on,' Arthur said, grabbing Eames' bag and turning towards the exit. 'I'm paying like a hundred bucks a minute for parking.'

\--

Eames avoided Arthur's gaze as much as possible while they left the airport, and remained uncharacteristically quiet. It was only when Arthur was fully concentrating on driving, his eyes focused on the highway ahead of him, that Eames let himself look at Arthur, studying him.

He wasn't scared of him, not as he had been. It was still a shock to see Arthur, but it was different, now, somehow. Eames couldn't elucidate, even to himself, what had changed, but despite embarrassing himself in Paris, he had been right - he didn't feel as frightened of Arthur as he had. He felt embarrassed, mostly, but that wasn't it - Eames was still attracted to Arthur, despite everything, and he wished that he could feel the old emotions Arthur's face, Arthur's body used to bring up. Instead, he couldn't get his mind clear enough to appreciate anything other than this lack of fear, of outright panic. He supposed the residual effect of the wine he had drunk on the plane wasn't helping.

'So.' Arthur broke the silence, flicking a quick glance to Eames, who quickly fixed his gaze to the passing cars outside his window. 'Nice face,' Arthur said after a second.

Eames raised his still sore left hand to touch the cut underneath his eye. 'Thanks,' he said as he touched it gently, afraid of hurting it or his hand further.

Arthur sent him another quick glance, his eyebrows raised. 'Nice hand.' 

'Yeah.' Eames lowered his hand quickly, suddenly self-conscious, especially since the night before had made it swell up again. 'It's broken, actually.'

Arthur didn't say anything for a moment. 'From Paris or from what happened to your face?' he said after another moment, looking at the rear-view mirror and preparing to get off the highway.

Eames didn't answer right away, somewhat embarrassed that his injury - well, _that_ injury - was from almost punching Arthur in the face. Again.

His pause must have answered Arthur's question.

'Glad you didn't hit me,' Arthur said, but his tone was light. 'I'd rather your hand than my nose.'

Eames looked at his profile. 'I wouldn't have.' He thought about the hotel room in London. 'Well, not again.'

'Good, because I wouldn't have been so gentle this time,' Arthur said, but the quick grin he flashed at Eames revealed he was teasing.

They lapsed into a moment of silence.

'Your face,' Arthur said, the teasing note gone from his voice. 'Does this have something to do with what you told me about last night - about almost killing someone?' His tone was indecipherable, but serious.

'Fuck.' Eames brought his non-broken hand up to his forehead, closing his eyes for a second. He didn't remember saying that - didn't remember most of his conversation with Arthur, besides that he was embarrassed from what he _did_ remember. 'No,' he said after a moment, his head still down. 'I didn't - it's not as bad - fuck,' he said again.

'Eames,' Arthur turned to him, the car halted at a red light. 'Are you gonna be in trouble if you go back to Mombasa? Is there anything I can help with?'

Eames almost laughed. 'Jesus, Arthur, aren't you sick of cleaning up after my messes yet?' He hurried on before Arthur could answer. 'No - it's fine. It, it wasn't as bad as I thought.' _I hope_ , he added silently. 'I'm not in trouble.'

Eames felt Arthur studying him for a long moment, but Eames kept his gaze stubbornly ahead. 'Okay,' Arthur said finally, turning back to the road as the stoplight turned green. Neither of them said anything else, even when they pulled into the street Eames recognised as Arthur's a few minutes later.

Eames made sure to grab his suitcase from the boot of the car before Arthur could, not liking that Arthur thought he couldn't carry it himself. The headache that had started on the plane and persisted through his second nap was getting worse, and Eames hesitated for a second beside the car. He didn't know what he was doing here, not really. He took a fortifying breath before following Arthur inside.

The flat was the same as Eames remembered. Same questionable decorating, that odd mix of so many things that both surprised Eames and somehow screamed Arthur - the collection of records in the corner, a large abstract painting behind the couch that looked disturbing to Eames but was certainly Arthur's taste, a plant that clearly needed watering by the door.

Eames had a flash of the last time he had entered the flat with his suitcase in hand, of Arthur pushing him against the door, and he swallowed quickly. Christ, he wished it were that bloody easy - despite all of the shit that had happened in the past few months, Eames would have given almost anything to have Arthur react that way now, to kiss, quickly and eagerly, like they had just a few months ago. But it wasn't Arthur's fault that it had all gotten so bloody difficult, and Eames tried to clear his mind, not sure if the idea of Arthur kissing him was too frightening or the thought that he wouldn't too depressing - either way Eames knew it wasn't helpful, especially after what had happened in Paris.

'Do you want any coffee?' Arthur asked, stopping in the middle of the living room. 'I can get you some if you're jet lagged.'

'Yeah, that sounds good, ta,' Eames said distractedly, considering where to put his suitcase. He ended up stashing it in a corner of the small room as Arthur headed into his connected kitchen.

It hit Eames again that he didn't know why he was there, not really. All he remembered from the conversation between him and Arthur the night before was telling Arthur that he hated him, that he blamed him, and - that wasn't true. Eames didn't blame him, and certainly didn't hate him, not really. Once again bringing a hand up to rub at his forehead, Eames closed his eyes. Jesus, it would be easier if he _did_ hate him.

Eames was torn from his thoughts a second later by Arthur shoving a mug in front of him. 'I put a lot of sugar and milk in,' he said as Eames accepted the cup, 'but I'm not sure it’s as sickeningly sweet as you like it.'

Eames ignored this, putting the coffee down on the table in front of the couch, suddenly not sure he could stomach it.

Arthur sat on a chair and followed Eames's lead, putting his coffee on the table as well. He left the entire couch open for Eames who hesitated for a moment, biting his lip, before sitting down.

Eames tried to clear his thoughts, tried to think through the dull, instant pound of his headache. 'Look, I think you have the wrong idea.' Looking at his coffee cup, Eames didn't turn to see Arthur's reaction to this. 'From that phone call, I mean. It's --'

Arthur interrupted him and Eames couldn't help but turn his eyes towards him, just for a second. Arthur looked calm, his face giving nothing away. 'Eames - I was glad you called, actually. Concerned and freaked out, but glad.' There was a second of silence, and Eames once again focused on the coffee mug in front of him. 'I've been worried about you,' Arthur eventually said, matter-of-factly.

'You don't have to be.' Eames brushed this off, automatically, unthinkingly. He wasn't stupid - he knew he was lying and he didn't mean to start it this way, to start by lying to Arthur, but he hadn't travelled halfway around the world to hear how 'concerned' Arthur was.

'No?' Arthur said, in a tone that was unreadable. 'Look - I've been in contact with Yusuf since Paris. I know how you've spent the last week, that --'

Eames jerked his head towards Arthur at this admission, but Arthur didn't meet his eyes. Eames felt a rush of nerves, suddenly on edge as he wondered where exactly he was going with this, why the fuck he thought it was okay to discuss his life with Yusuf behind his back - what he had told Yusuf.

Eames struggled to keep his voice calm. 'You didn't - didn't tell Yusuf?' he asked, and while he hated that it had turned into a question, that he was sure Arthur could hear the waver in his voice, he couldn't control either of those. 

He didn't have to specify what he was talking about and he was grateful to Arthur for that. 'No,' Arthur said, and he looked at Eames, his brow wrinkled in confusion at the question. 'Of course not - Eames, I was worried, that's all, but you have to know I would never tell anyone anything you didn't want me to.' Eames didn't answer and Arthur went on, his tone dry. 'Look - Yusuf's kept me updated on your week of drinking and gambling binges.'

Another wave of anger flooded Eames, and he thought about denying this, of telling Arthur that it was none of his goddamn business what he did when he was continents away, but Arthur went on before he could form any reply.

'I thought about going to see you,' he said, his tone once again so matter-of-fact. 'I wanted to go to Mombasa, after you left Paris so suddenly, but I didn't think you'd want to see _me_.' 

Anger snaked up Eames' spine, into his throat, making him feel almost feverish with rage. 'What the fuck, Arthur - it's bad enough you're talking about me behind my back like some sort of… of child. I don't need a bloody babysitter.'

'That's not what --'

'No.' Eames stood up. He couldn't do this. 'This was a mistake.'

'Eames, come on,' Arthur said in a tone Eames recognised was supposed to be placating.

'I don't need you to worry about me,' Eames said firmly, as he went to pick up his bag.

'No?' Arthur was suddenly standing as well, stepping in front of Eames and blocking his way to the door. 'I don't need to worry about you?' His tone was harsh, mocking, and Eames let go of his bag, wanting his hands free. The longing he'd had for Arthur to kiss him as he had months ago was gone instantly and fear washed over Eames, erasing any desire he'd felt as his pulse skyrocketed and his body break into a cold sweat.

'Jesus, Eames,' Arthur continued, his voice still harsh and bitter. 'I've done nothing _but_ worry about you for months - starting in London in that stupid bathroom, then listening to all the rumours about how you were cracking up from too much forging, didn't even know who you were anymore - which, fuck, seemed possible, I mean, you wouldn't even speak to me - and you fucking _hit_ me - Eames, of course I've been fucking worried.'

'I'm fine,' Eames said dismissively, looking over Arthur's shoulder at the door.

'Don't --' Arthur reached his hand up, palm open, and Eames flinched, causing Arthur to interrupt himself. He took a step back and there was a moment of embarrassed silence as Eames chewed on his lip, his eyes on the floor. 'Don't fucking lie to me,' Arthur said after a moment, his tone quieter but no less intense.

Eames felt his throat constrict and his chest tighten and he lowered his head, suddenly terrified that he was going to start to cry. He stood frozen for a moment, Arthur similarly not moving at his side, before taking a step back, his legs wobbly. He sat back on the couch, all but collapsing onto it, and kept his head down, embarrassed and upset at his reaction, at the fact that he knew Arthur could undoubtedly tell he was shaking.

Arthur followed him and again sat on the chair near him, but not next to him. 'You're allowed to not be fine,' he said gently after a moment. 

Flashes of the past week - of the past few months - shot through Eames' head, ending on the picture of him looming over Marcos with blood on his fists, and Eames felt sick all over again. 'I'm not --' he started, but couldn't get any further. He wanted to tell Arthur - he came to tell Arthur - that he wasn't fine, that he was scared and that even though he hated to admit it, he wasn't sure he could manage to get out of the hole he had fallen into alone. But he couldn't, physically couldn't speak.

Eames sat with his head down for a long moment, wetting his lips before speaking. 'It was just a dream,' he said, and his voice sounded funny to his ears. He looked up, meeting Arthur's gaze as he swallowed, trying to cure his suddenly dry mouth. 'It wasn't you and it wasn't real.'

If Arthur was bothered by this non sequitur, he didn't show it. 'Eames, you of all people should know that dreams matter. I mean - I've been injured too many times in a dream to say that the pain isn't real and I can't,' he paused, 'I can't imagine what you went through.'

'But it wasn't you,' Eames said, not sure who he was reminding.

'No. But I'm sorry that Murray made you think it was.'

'I don't blame you,' Eames said, his brain unable to stay on any one train of thought for more than a few seconds. He kept his eyes on Arthur, needing him to know that he was telling the truth. 'What I said on the phone - I was wrong, I don't blame you.' Eames bit at his lip as he felt his eyes water at the memory of the phone call, of his disjointed memories of that night and dropped his head once again. 'Shit,' he said, his voice thick.

'Eames, I wouldn't fault you if you did.' Arthur's tone was still gentle, which somehow only made Eames' tears worse. 'I wouldn't fault you if you never wanted to see me again. I get that you're angry with me, I get it.'

'No,' Eames said quickly, raising his head and ignoring that his eyes were wet. 'No, I --' He paused and tried to collect himself, but when he spoke next his voice was still almost unrecognisable to his ears. 'One of the worst parts of this whole thing,' he admitted slowly, wanting to get his words right, 'Is that I really - I really enjoyed being in Los Angeles last time. After the Fischer job. With you.' Eames got another flash of lying on this same couch with Arthur, of laughing and touching and kissing and his stomach jumped, wishing to God he could just go back to that.

He returned to the present after a second and laughed slightly, the sound stripped of any humour. 'But… Murray fucked that up. _I_ fucked that up.' 

'No,' Arthur said quickly, looking at him. 'You didn't fuck anything up, Eames. It's just - I didn't,' he paused, evidently thinking over his words. 'Eames, I don't want to put this all on you right now. You obviously have a lot to deal with - I think Paris showed that you aren't making all the right decisions for yourself --' 

'Don't do that,' Eames said, and couldn't keep the sudden, tight fury out of his tone. 'Don't make excuses for me, don't fucking baby me - if you're disgusted or just not interested or what the fuck ever, you don't have to make excuses.' He knew it, he fucking _knew_ it - Arthur was disgusted by him, by what had happened, by what he had _let_ happen to him, and Eames didn't want excuses. If Arthur thought he was used goods, Eames wanted to know, wanted to know _that_ was the reason. 

'That's not it,' Arthur said, but Eames looked away, not convinced. 'Eames. You're wrong. Its not that I'm not interested and I don't even _know_ why you think I'd be disgusted, but that's not --' Arthur trailed off as he leaned forward, practically kneeling in order to get closer to Eames, to try to get him to look at him. Eames avoided him, keeping his head turned the other way, his eyes watering once more as he berated himself - he should have known, he was fucking smarter than this, he shouldn't have brought this up at all.

'Eames, come on - don't do that. Don't make yourself more miserable,' Arthur was saying, as if he could hear Eames' thoughts. Eames took a deep, shaky breath, still trying to remain in control and not further embarrass himself in front of Arthur. 'Look - I misspoke. I was trying to take responsibility and I didn't --' Arthur was tripping over his words and Eames knew if this had been in some other circumstances, he would have enjoyed seeing the usual unflappable Arthur in such a state. 'Eames - I'm here. I'm here whenever.' Arthur paused, still leaning close to Eames, but Eames kept his head down, his eyes screwed closed. 'I - I think you should spend some time making sure you're alright and not drinking Mombasa dry or gambling away all the money you've ever made or - or scared I'll touch you.'

Eames finally looked up at this, his head still down, and knew that Arthur couldn't miss that his eyes were wet. He said nothing as he studied Arthur, trying to figure out if he was lying, if he was covering up for disgust or revulsion. 

'I think you should deal with all that,' Arthur said, looking at him and speaking slowly, seriously, and looking for all the world as if he were speaking completely honestly. 'Before we try anything else. Just - just take some time, okay?' 

Eames snorted, but it came out sounding broken, closer to a sob. He couldn't keep his frustration or bitterness out of his tone when he spoke. 'I'm so fucking sick of time. I haven't done anything for months - no jobs, no dreaming. I don't need any more bloody _time_.'

Arthur took a deep breath, a pained expression on his face. 'Listen, Eames, there is nothing - _nothing_ \- I wish more in the world right now than that I could take away what happened or - or make it better instantly. I wish I could kiss you, right now, and have you somehow forget everything that happened. I wish I could take you under and show you what sex in a dream with me is really like.' Eames stayed quiet, but kept his eyes on Arthur, listening. 'But that's not going to help,' Arthur continued. 'That's not going to stop you flinching every time I get too close to you.'

Eames felt a flush of embarrassment at the mention of this, but Arthur went on before he could formulate a response.

'I know the last few months have been hell for you and I am so, so sorry for my role in that - for what Murray did and for not seeing or, or ignoring what you've been doing to yourself. But Jesus, Eames.' For the first time, Arthur broke eye contact, looking down for a second before meeting Eames' gaze once again. 'I'm not letting us do this, okay? I’m not letting _us_ become another excuse. I can't take anymore of this, of watching you destroy yourself while I let it go on. You need time to get yourself together because I can't sit here any longer, a fucking continent away, and watch you self-destruct. I can't let you do that.' 

Arthur's tone was getting firmer as he went on, gaining strength. It was still gentle, not angry, but steelier. 'It ends now, okay?' He paused, considering Eames for so long that he wasn't sure if he should answer. 'All of it,' he finally continued. 'The drinking, gambling, drugs, it ends now. I'll help you detox, with withdrawal, any of that and we can deal with what happens, but I can't - I can't watch you kill yourself.' Arthur broke off, and looked down again, clenching his jaw. When he looked up again, his voice was tighter. 'I can't do it, Eames. I'm not letting you do that to yourself - it's no longer a fucking option.'

Arthur took a deep breath, and Eames watched as he looked at the ceiling for a second. 'So yeah,' he said a second later, his voice quieter and less intense, but still serious. He looked back at Eames. 'You need time. It’s frustrating, I know it is, but… you need time. We need time.'

Eames was frozen, unsure of what to say, how to reply. He felt slightly numb, unable to take in all that was happening. He watched Arthur for a long moment, trying to get his head around all that he had said, as Arthur studied him in return. 'How much time?' he asked eventually, and although his voice was high, pathetic, he couldn't bring himself to care.

'I dunno,' Arthur answered honestly. 'Why don't we start with getting you detoxed from the alcohol and whatever else and then… and then we can see.'

Eames tried once again to consider all of this, biting his lip slightly. Maybe Arthur wasn't completely disgusted by him. He didn't let himself think too deeply about all that he had said, however, his thoughts traveling to quickly to take it all in. He finally spoke after a minute, concentrating on the last thing he'd understood. 'What do you mean, detox?' 

'I mean you're staying here,' Arthur said firmly, 'and you're not drinking anymore. And no drugs, nothing. I have all the supplies, all --' he looked towards the kitchen quickly and Eames followed his glance. 'I've got everything we need to get through any withdrawal symptoms you'll have --'

Eames couldn't stop himself from making a surprised noise, interrupting Arthur. Withdrawal, what the fuck was Arthur on about? Although Eames couldn't help but get a thrill of enjoyment from seeing Arthur back in classic point man mode, the effect was ruined by Eames being the target of his preparations. Especially since such preparations were unnecessary.

'What? No,' he said, trying to match Arthur's firm tone. 'I'm not as bad as that. You don't need any "supplies."'

Arthur raised an eyebrow. 'You've been drinking pretty heavily for months… You think everyone didn't see that? You were always drunk or hung over in London, and even worse in Paris. I know you've been steadily drinking and, according to Yusuf, you've been drunk for practically the entire last week. Did you find the wine I had them leave for you on the plane?' Eames sent him a surprised look. 'I figured this would all be easier if you weren't starting withdrawal while we discussed… all of this. But I was glad to see you came off the airplane not totally drunk.'

Eames hated this conniving, that Arthur thought he had bested him, and was angry with himself for falling into Arthur's trick. But a part of him was still enjoying seeing this glimpse of the old Arthur, always one step ahead, and despite being frustrated that Arthur had kept tabs on him, he couldn't help but wonder what it meant. He stayed silent as Arthur continued. 

'Listen, I have it set up. It's not going to be pleasant, but I have all the supplies and a doctor I trust that we can call if it gets bad --'

Eames sighed and looked away, but still said nothing. His head was still pounding, as though there was a band tightening slowly around his skull, but he was sure it had more to do with Arthur's manipulation than with anything worse than a mild hangover.

'Also,' Arthur said, and a change in his voice made Eames look back at him. 'I think it would be best if Ariadne came to stay with us for a bit - it's gonna be crowded, but I know she wants to see you and --'

'What?' Eames interrupted, ‘No.’ It was one thing for Arthur to be convinced he was destroying himself, that he needed him to save him, but Eames was not about to let someone else get involved, even - _especially_ \- Ariadne.

'She offered to come.' Arthur's tone was defensive and Eames wondered quickly how much he had been talking to _her_ about him in the past week. 'She's worried, too.'

'No,' Eames said again. 'Look, it - it's bad enough that you and Yusuf saw me like - like this. But I don't - I can't --' Eames broke off, feeling overwhelmed. He didn't like this, didn't like feeling helpless like this.

'Okay,' Arthur backed off. 'I just… anxiety and panic attacks can be some of the symptoms. I wanted to make sure --'

'Nothing's going to happen, Arthur!' Eames struck out, and was instantly embarrassed as his reaction. He brought his voice down, tried to calm himself even though he swore he could feel his blood pressure skyrocketing. 'I'm not a bloody alcoholic, alright? I'm certainly not a bloody _drug addict_ , so come off it, okay?' He avoided eye contact, but took a breath, recognising that getting upset was not going to help his argument. 'You saved me from a rough night - thank you. I -- you're right, okay, I won't drink as much.' He looked up at this, meeting Arthur's gaze again. 'But I'm not going to let you do your fucking point man act on me. I'm not going to get sick, I'm not going to get panic attacks, I don't need you to take care of me, and I certainly don't need a bloody little girl either.'

Arthur appeared completely nonplussed by this, and merely stared back at Eames calmly. 'I don't think Ariadne would like to hear you refer to her like that.'

Somehow Arthur's ability to be completely unfazed only irritated Eames more and he struggled to hold still, the adrenaline suddenly flooding his system making him shaky. 'Why do you care? Why do you fucking care what I do anyway? I don't want you to do this out of guilt, Arthur - don't make me your next project just because you feel bad that someone could forge you convincingly.'

Arthur did react to this. 'I - what?' he said, sounding genuinely confused.

'You didn't do anything to me, so just leave me alone, okay? Whatever you think you owed me you repaid by getting me out of Mombasa last night. Just…' Eames paused, struggling to think through his headache. He wanted to leave, wanted all of this to be over and - and fuck Arthur, he wanted a fucking drink.

'Eames.' Something in Arthur's voice cut through the pain in Eames' mind and he met his eyes again. 'I'm not doing this because I think I owe you. Aren't you listening --' he interrupted himself, and Eames watched as he took a deep breath, looking away for a short moment. '"Why do I even care?"' He parroted back to Eames in a softer voice, looking at him once more. 'How can you even ask that?'

Eames studied him for a moment, his brow furrowed as he contemplated what that meant. There was no disgust on Arthur's face, no sense that he was repulsed by Eames, by what had happened. Eames looked away for a second, took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Maybe Arthur wasn't doing this out of some misguided sense of responsibility, but he still wasn't sure what his motives were. 

He looked back at Arthur after a long moment, after he'd come to some sort of decision. 'I'm not going to go through withdrawal,' he said stubbornly

Arthur raised both eyebrows and sighed, making clear his disbelief at this. 'Okay,' he said.

'That's fucking ridiculous.'

'Okay,' Arthur repeated, a note of impatience in his voice. Eames watched as he took another deep breath before speaking again, any trace of impatience gone. 'So that was a no to calling Ariadne then?'

'No. Just you and me.' Eames turned away, his mind back on Arthur's response to his question. He was unsure what it meant, and his head was still pounding, pulsing with pain that was making it increasingly difficult to think through. He looked back at Arthur after a moment. 'Whatever you think is going to happen, I want it to be just you and me.'

Arthur met his gaze and they stayed like that a moment, each staring at the other, but Arthur broke first, and Eames closed his eyes in relief, taking a deep breath. 'Fine,' Arthur said. 'Just you and me then.'


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

Oh fuck, it was hell.

It hadn't seemed that bad, not at first - it crept up on Eames. He'd managed to fall asleep for a few hours on Arthur's couch, after the pulsing headache had gotten to be too much, and he'd had to cover his head with a pillow to block out any light. He hadn't been able to sleep for long, however - the same headache woke him up, his head feeling as though it was being squeezed, crushed by some powerful force; then his stomach kicked in - flipping over and hurting, not just aching but _hurting_ , as though he was being stabbed; then the shaking started, his whole body trembling; and soon he couldn't keep anything down and he was freezing, fucking _freezing_ , and he couldn't stay still even though he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse, just to get some bloody sleep. Now, it seemed dying was the only thing that would ever make him feel any better.

He was leaning over the toilet, again, gagging and retching, even though he had passed the point of having anything in his stomach hours ago. His neck and lower back were screaming in pain, cramped from being in the same position for so long, and Eames just wanted to lie down, but every time he moved from his position, another wave of nausea would sweep over him. He spit into the toilet again, trying to rid the acrid taste in his mouth, and glanced at Arthur, who was sitting not far away on the edge of his bathtub, watching Eames.

Pausing for a second, Eames tried to catch his breath as he admitted to himself that, like anything Arthur was involved with planning, his attempt at 'detoxing' Eames - and fuck if Eames didn't still hate using that word, didn't hate the _drama_ of it - had been well thought out, well planned. He'd explained it all to Eames - how he had gotten all the supplies they would need, all the materials he'd read about that _might_ be necessary, how Eames shouldn't worry because only a minority of people going through alcohol withdrawal needed outside medical help.

Eames had sent him a disbelieving look at this, which had only Arthur defensive. 'Look, it can be dangerous, okay? So I researched it.'

'Of course you did,' Eames had replied, his tone wry. He'd still been convinced that Arthur was overreacting, still been more amused by his over-preparation than anything. It had reminded him of working with Arthur, of how he really was the best at what he did precisely because of his tendency for such over-preparation, and Eames couldn't help but find it slightly endearing, even while finding it rather exasperating. 'Arthur - this isn't going to get as bad as you think. I don't even get hangovers.'

Arthur had looked at him steadily. 'Do you ever stop drinking long enough?

Eames hadn't been amused and he'd avoided eye contact, all good will towards Arthur's preparations gone. 'I'll get a headache. That's it.'

Eames was jerked from his memory when his stomach flipped again, causing him to pitch forward into the toilet, bringing up nothing but burning bile.

'Oh God,' he managed to stutter after what seemed like another hour, finally leaning back and attempting to steady his heaving breath. He stayed hunched over, his hands still on the toilet and his forehead on his forearms, careful of his bandaged hand. His stomach hurt from the seemingly endless muscle contractions and his head was still pounding as though someone had tied a tight vice around it. _Everything_ hurt.

He stayed like this for a second until he could look up, immediately searching beside him for his totem. It was lying to his right, where he had dropped it, and he palmed it quickly, his hands still shaking, as he felt Arthur watch him from his seat above.

'Okay?' Arthur asked. When Eames looked towards him, Arthur handed him a flannel, which Eames accepted with clammy hands.

'Cheers,' he said, wiping his face slowly, trying unsuccessfully to still his hands.

'You're not going to like my next suggestion,' Arthur said after another moment, 'but you really need to eat something.'

Eames raised a hand to silence him, even as his stomach lurched and he felt another wave of nausea. 'Please don't mention food,' he mumbled, closing his eyes briefly and swallowing slightly, gently.

'It might help,' Arthur said, standing up. 'I have some fruit in the kitchen, that's supposed to be the best thing for this.' Eames closed his eyes again, unmoving, and tried to ignore Arthur. 'Come on, Eames,' he heard Arthur say a second later, the sound echoing through his headache. 'I'll help you up, okay?'

He opened his eyes to see Arthur reaching a hand out and Eames considered it for a second. He wished that he could trust himself to stand on his own, that he didn't need to rely on Arthur's help, but he was shaky and weak and it would be more embarrassing to attempt to stand on his own and fail than it would be to accept the help.

He gripped the offered arm and Arthur helped him stand, Eames shaking him off immediately. His head swam as the blood rushed from it and Eames clutched at the sink, white knuckling it to make sure he stayed upright.

'You okay?' Arthur asked, just watching.

'Yeah just gimme --' Eames began but too quickly his vision dimmed and he felt his knees start to give out. He tried to keep his grip on the sink, but felt Arthur lunge at him from behind, seizing him by his upper arms and steadying him. Eames blinked, trying to bring his vision back, and slumped forward, held up only by Arthur's hands and the sink's basin.

'Fuck,' he managed a few seconds later, when he could manage to stand almost on his own. He took a step back, forcing Arthur to drop his hands. He let go of the sink hesitantly, and sunk back to the floor. 'I think - maybe I'll stay in here for a bit,' Eames said after a moment, trying to make his voice light as his heart rate slowed down. The room was spinning, just the slightest bit, and it was making his stomach and head worse.

'I can help you if you want to get back to the couch, let --' Arthur began.

'No,' Eames said quickly, and was immediately embarrassed at his curt tone. 

There was a beat. 'Or we can stay here.' Arthur sat back down on the edge of the tub, as Eames moved slightly, slowly, so his back was beside him on the white porcelain, just a few inches from touching Arthur's leg.

'Fuck,' Eames said after a moment, taking a deep breath with his eyes still closed, his head back against the cool porcelain of the tub. 'I'm so bloody sick of having everything be out of control. I mean - Jesus, I can't even stand up right now.' He laughed dryly, unsure what else to do. 'I can't keep anything down, can't sleep more than a few hours a night, God knows if I can still dream or forge or anything - my whole bloody life is in shambles and I can't even stand up.'

He opened his eyes, glancing up at Arthur quickly before he could respond. 'I meant what I said - I don't blame you. But bloody hell, Arthur - everything is so fucked up and he - fucking Murray - wasn't even trying to get to me. I was just collateral damage.'

'Eames, I'm sorry --' 

'Stop,' Eames interrupted, firmly but not spitefully. 'Don't. I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty, or to make you feel like you have something to apologise for. It's just - I never even met Murray, not until this was all over. It does my head in, you know?' He barked a laugh and couldn't stop this from sounding bitter. 'No, of course you don't.'

'You know, Eames,' Arthur said after a moment, speaking slowly and clearly considering his words. 'Maybe it would be a good idea, along with dealing with the physical effects of the last few months, if you dealt with the… less physical ones.' Eames glanced up at him, confusion on his face. 'Maybe it would be good if you talked to someone about - about all of this.'

Eames laughed again, still dry. 'Gonna recommend me a good psychiatrist, Arthur? How very American of you.'

'Hey, it could be helpful, that's all.' Arthur's voice had a note of defensiveness in it that Eames wasn't expecting and he looked at him once more, studying him for a moment before replying.

'Other problems aside,' he said after a moment, 'don't you think some of my less legal... practices might be a bit of a complication?' 

Arthur shrugged, apparently unbothered. 'I could find someone to trust,' he said simply.

Eames watched him for a moment, before decisively looking away. 'I don't think so.'

'Fine… but I do thinking talking about this all might help.' Eames pulled a face, unconvinced. 'Even if it's just to Yusuf or Ariadne or… or me.'

'There's nothing to tell,' Eames brushed him off quickly, suddenly much more nervous as to where this conversation was headed. 'You already know everything.' Eames was trying for a droll, bored tone, but his voice just sounded weak. He stared ahead, not turning to Arthur, and clutched his hands together, trying unsuccessfully to stop their shaking.

The disbelief in Arthur's voice was obvious as he echoed his words. 'Nothing to tell?'

'Oh, I'm sorry, Arthur,' Eames began before he was sure what he was doing, and some of the weakness drained from his voice, replaced by an angry, cutting tone. 'Did you want the fine details? Do you want to know everything that Murray did to me - that _you_ did to me, that you made me do? Do you want to know how Murray used your body, used your --'

'Stop it.' Arthur spoke coldly, harshly, and Eames stopped, staring resolutely ahead and biting at the inside of his lip. 'That's not fair, Eames,' Arthur continued more softly after a second. 'You know that's not what I meant.'

'There's nothing to tell.' 

'Okay,' Arthur said, his tone still unbelieving but apparently giving up. 'Fine, nothing.'

'What do you want from me, Arthur?' Eames said suddenly, and despite his dizziness, the palsy in his hands and body, and all his aches and pains, he managed to twist so that he could face Arthur, still on the floor in front of him. 'What do you want me to talk about? Some bastard that I never even fucking met destroyed my life, kidnapped me and - and fucking - attacked me.' He broke his gaze from Arthur's, embarrassed that after all this time he couldn't bring himself to say what had happened, what Murray had done to him. 'What do you expect me to talk about?' he repeated after a moment, looking back at Arthur. 

Arthur didn't back down, sounding resolute when he answered, looking at Eames. 'I'm just worried that if you don't talk about this, if you keep trying to pretend everything is fine all of the time, this detox won't mean anything. It will be a waste of time because you'll just go back to drinking yourself to death every night to deal with what happened and Eames - I told you, I'm not letting you do that.'

Eames clenched his jaw, trying to maintain eye contact through his headache, but only lasted for a second, before shifting his gaze to the tiled floor and taking a shaky breath. 'Shit, Arthur, I… I just want everything to go back to normal. I want this all to be over and to be - to be fucking better. I thought killing Murray would do it, I thought being with you would do it, I thought being with someone fucking else would do it, but nothing ever does. Nothing makes this better.' He cut off suddenly, afraid his voice would break. 

'It will get better, Eames. It will.' Eames looked back at Arthur, afraid he would see pity in his face, but mostly Arthur just looked sad. 'You just need to stop putting so much pressure on yourself - you can't expect something dramatic to happen and make everything that happened melt away. It takes time. Time when you're sober,' he added.

'I can't even --' Eames stopped again, closing his eyes briefly in frustration. 'I haven't dreamed in months. Or, I have actually,' he chuckled slightly, with no trace of amusement. 'Nightmares. But no dream sharing. I don't even know…' he trailed off, not wanting to voice the full idea. He felt a rush of fear, fear that he had lost the only thing he was truly a genius at, and he clenched his jaw as he a wave of nausea followed it.

'So we'll work on it,' Arthur said, in his usual straight-forward voice. 'Start with long walks on the beach or something,' he grinned. 'I dunno, something inconsequential, ease you back into it.'

Eames worried at his inner lip again, his nausea fading back to its usual tolerable level. 'We?'

'Yeah - you can get back to normal, Eames. Just. Maybe not all by yourself.' Arthur didn't look directly at Eames as he said this, studying the wall slightly to his right.

Eames looked at Arthur, and once again felt a rush of affection so strong that it surprised him, crowding above his nausea, his feverish shivering and sweating. He averted his gaze almost immediately, however, as a sense of shame followed instantly. 'I'm sorry,' he said softly after a minute. He was so tired, suddenly all too aware of his exhaustion again. Just sitting up was taking all he had, but he resisted the urge to twist back around, instead looking back at Arthur. 'I don't… I know you're helping me here, and I appreciate it. I'm sorry I keep… keep being difficult.'

Arthur snickered, and Eames narrowed his eyes, unsure what that meant. 'You're always difficult, Eames. This is just a new, fun form of difficulty.'

Eames rolled his eyes. 'Thanks, Arthur.' He paused for a beat. 'I'll try to be less difficult.'

Arthur's laughed slightly. 'I'll believe that when I see it.'

Eames glared at him. He knew Arthur was joking, could recognise on some level that this was the sort of teasing that was normal to both of them, and on any other day, where Eames wasn't struggling just to sit up, it would have rolled off his back. In his current situation, however, Eames felt a surge of annoyance. 'I'm glad this is hilarious to you,' he said, turning back around slowly. He pressed his back into the tub, feeling its coolness through his sweat-soaked shirt. 

'Eames, it's not hilarious,' he heard Arthur say, sounding apologetic. 'Look, I get that you're not feeling well, that a lot of stuff is going on, that's all I meant. You don't have to apologise.'

'Why are you doing this, anyway?' Eames couldn't help but ask, feeling bolder now that he couldn't see Arthur's face. He brought a hand up to his forehead, wiping at the sweat on his brow and trying to ease the headache that was still making his head pound. 'It can't be fun. You said you're not doing this because you think you owe me. What are you getting out of this?'

Arthur laughed slightly again, but this time without a trace of amusement. 'Jesus, Eames, I'm not getting anything out of this, I told you. And, no, it's not fun. But you know why I'm doing this. You're not this dense, Eames.'

'Why?' Eames pressed, his back still to Arthur. He didn't allow himself to think too hard, wanting only to hear what Arthur said.

'Why? God, Eames…' Arthur trailed off for a second, and Eames waited, closing his eyes and laying his head back against the porcelain but listening intently. 'I told you - it's been hell watching you the last few months. I can't imagine how bad its been for you, but watching it… I couldn't let you keep doing that. I care about you, Eames, I'm not going to let you destroy yourself.'

Eames' stomach jerked at this, but not from nausea. He hadn't had time to think about all that Arthur had said the night before, what he had admitted, but he didn't want Arthur to admit things now that he'd take back later, when he no longer felt bad, when Eames was no longer in such a pathetic position. He let out a sarcastic-sounding laugh. 'Don't. Don't pretend this is something it's not because you feel guilty.'

There was a pause before Arthur answered, but Eames stayed still, didn't twist to see him. 'This isn't about guilt, Eames,' he said finally, and his voice had something in it that Eames couldn't place. 'You have to know it's not. Look, I - I waited a long time to ever… ever do anything with you. Ever give into your constant - seriously, _constant_ \- advances because I didn't think you were serious or because I didn't want to mess up our working relationship or occasionally because you were just driving me crazy, but I thought long and hard before inviting you back after the Fischer case. I waited a long fucking time and I'm not going to let you destroy yourself and push me away just because someone else realised what you meant to me and twisted it.'

Eames bit his lip, feeling his chest tighten and his breath hitch. He swallowed hard, writing off this sudden rise of emotions as part of the withdrawal symptoms. 'What are you trying to say here, Arthur?' he said after a minute, his voice sounding almost as shaky as his hands felt.

Eames felt a shift behind him as Arthur rose from his seat on the side of the tub and sat down beside Eames, careful to be close but not touching him. Eames watched him warily, but didn't move. 'I'm saying I care about you,' Arthur said slowly, taking advantage of his new position to look at Eames. 'And that… and I dunno, I love you or whatever and I'm doing this because you deserve to not be killing yourself. Because I want you to be happier than you've been in months. Because, I dunno, I want you to stay here, with me, and not have you drunk all the time.'

Eames didn't move, eyeing Arthur. 'You… you "love me or whatever"?' he said after a minute, unsure how to react. His brain had frozen, and Eames could do nothing but watch Arthur for a moment. Arthur looked at him and opened his mouth to reply, but Eames suddenly spoke before he could, looking down at the floor, away from Arthur. 'Why, Arthur, you've always had such a need for specificity… interesting to see this fails you when you have to play the role of a romantic.' Eames tried for the teasing tone he used to use so often with Arthur, but wasn't sure he managed it. He fought the urge to look back at Arthur, unsure what the response would be.

'Sorry, Eames, shall I be more specific?' Arthur had adopted a similar teasing tone. 'I love you,' he said simply. 'Specific enough for you?'

Eames looked at him again, trying to judge how serious he was, and Arthur went on after a moment of silence, 'More specific, still?' The teasing note was gone from his voice. 'Eames, I love you. I want to spend time with you when we're both awake and not solely planning on fleecing some poor unsuspecting mark out of his money or ideas, I'd like you to be sober when I spend time with you, I want to do ridiculously mundane things with you like going out for dinner or having a pizza, I want to build cities with you in dreams and --' He stopped for a second, raising an eyebrow. 'Well, shall I go on?'

Eames couldn't help the grin that he felt on his face, despite his headache. 'I'm not going to stop you.' Ignoring the pain in his head and stomach was suddenly easier as Eames focused on Arthur, his heart beating faster and harder than it had a few minutes before, finally not from fear.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but was still smiling and dutifully continued. 'I think you're very attractive - despite the fact that you obviously know it and never seem to shut up about it --'

'You're ruining the romance of the moment again, Arthur,' Eames broke in, still grinning.

'Oh, I'm sorry - I'm declaring my love for you _despite_ the fact that you just vomited all over my bathroom, and _I'm_ ruining the romantic moment?' Arthur said, in a tone of mock-outrage, watching Eames carefully.

Eames actually smiled at this, before another stabbing pain from his head wiped the smile from his face. He brought up his knees and sat forward, pressing his head into his knees and allowing his hands to go to his still-aching stomach. He tried to keep the pain out of his voice as he answered Arthur after a moment, his voice serious again. 'Arthur, I…' he was thankful that his head was in his lap, thankful for an excuse not to face Arthur. 'I'm really messed up right now.' Arthur made a slight noise of fake surprise, which Eames ignored. 'I mean, I… I really care about you and… and I'm thankful - I mean, I…' he stopped, certain he was making this all worse. After all these months… he'd wanted this conversation to happen, for months. Maybe years. But now? Eames struggled to concentrate on what was happening, trying again. 'Arthur, I --' he stopped, his voice cutting out suddenly.

'Hey, Eames, it's okay,' Arthur said gently after a second, leaning forward to try to catch Eames' gaze. 'We can figure this all out later, okay? Or… not. I'm not putting pressure on you. Just… get better for right now, okay?' Eames looked back at him, grateful for Arthur's understanding, and just nodded, not trusting his voice. He felt his chest tighten again, suddenly worried that he had reacted wrong, that he'd messed this up, again, but Arthur's voice interrupted his rising panic.

'Anyway, you don't exactly look your best right now,' Arthur said in a more normal voice, shifting his head back against the tub again. 'Maybe we should save these movie moments for when you're not… you know, puking and sweaty.'

Consoled by Arthur's response, Eames tried to force a laugh, tried to act normally as he sat up a bit more. 'Hey, you're the one who just declared your love for me, even though I smell of sick and sweat and I'm so weak you had to help me stand.'

Arthur grinned. 'Actually, I think this may be an improvement to some of the conditions I've seen you in.'

Eames felt his pulse speed up for reasons unrelated to fear or anxiety. He laughed slightly, less forced this time, as he followed Arthur's cue and leaned his head back against the tub again. The slight move made him dizzy and he took a second to recover before speaking again. 'I so want to kiss you right now,' he admitted, staring ahead, and it was true - he wished to God he could grab Arthur, press their lips, their bodies together and have it be normal, not have either one of them have to think about it. 'But I'd probably end up breaking another bone or - or hitting you or something,' he continued, trying to sound light, as if this were some sort of joke.

'Yeah, let's avoid both of those,' Arthur said slowly, his tone dry. 'We're taking it slowly, remember?' There was a beat as Eames tried to dissect what this meant, if he'd crossed some line with his comment. 'I'll try not to be so nice to you, that should make it easier for you,' Arthur said after a moment, and Eames was relieved to hear the note of teasing in his voice. 'And I have to say, as much as I have enjoyed kissing you in the past, you were right - you're not looking your best at the moment, Eames.'

'Mm, thanks.' Eames wanted to have a snappy comeback to this, but was suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion. He pressed his head further back against the porcelain, closing his eyes. Arthur's confession had apparently sapped what little energy he'd had left, and his head was pounding more harshly, the movement from the moment before exacerbating it. His stomach was more settled now, however, and he just wanted to sleep.

'Think you can make it back to the living room?' he heard Arthur say after a moment, his eyes still closed.

Eames nodded, and was slightly less embarrassed this time when he opened his eyes to see Arthur reaching a hand out to help him up.

\---- 

Eames managed to make it to the couch, with some help from Arthur, and fell asleep almost immediately. When he woke up, he was surprised to see that it was morning. He must have slept for almost five hours, more than he'd managed since the plane ride. He moved slightly, testing to see what new aches and pains would have developed, but nothing new hurt - his stomach was still queasy, his head still sensitive, but both were better than they had been.

He stood up slowly, his head not liking the change in altitude, but luckily his stomach didn't revolt. He grabbed a glass of water left on the table from the night before and felt safe enough to drink some of it, finishing most of it. He replaced the glass quietly, snatching the poker chip beside it and idly playing with it as he started to shakily make his way towards the bathroom.

Arthur was asleep on the chair beside the couch, looking uncomfortable in an awkward pretzel-like pose. Eames watched him, willing him to stay asleep, as he shuffled his way past him slowly.

Christ, he looked ghastly. Eames studied his reflection in the mirror above the sink, his non-broken hand supporting his weight on the basin. He looked truly awful - pale, still sweaty, needed a shave. He wasn't visibly shaking anymore, however, which was a relief. He struggled to suppress a yawn - he still felt exhausted.

Eames paused at the door to the bathroom before leaving, unsure if he was ready to face Arthur if he had woken up. He still felt too numb, too overwhelmed by everything that had taken place in the past twenty-four hours to be able to digest it all, but he felt a thrill run down his spine as he remembered Arthur's confession last night. For the first time, he wasn't worried about being scared of Arthur. 

He came out of the bathroom a minute later to see Arthur blinking sleepily from his place in the chair, looking half-awake.

'Good morning,' Arthur said after a moment, voice hoarse from sleep.

Eames grunted in response, falling back down to the couch.

'You look better,' Arthur said, undeterred by this lack of reply.

Eames shot him a look of disbelief - if this was him looking better, he didn't want to think about how bad he must have looked the day before.

Arthur glanced at his wrist. 'It's been about forty hours since your last drink,' he said, looking back at Eames. 'You should be through the worst of all this.'

Eames considered this. He still felt like shit. He was tired, his head ached and the light from the windows was only making it worse; he was so fucking thirsty he felt like he was dying, but was scared to drink too much, lest he puke it all back up; and he was still that weird mix of restless and exhausted at the same time. But he wasn't shaking, wasn't covered in cold sweat, and didn't have his head in the toilet, all of which he supposed was an improvement. 'How do you know?' he asked Arthur, unable to keep the notes of annoyance and frustration out of his voice.

When Arthur didn't answer right away, Eames rolled his eyes and answered for him. 'Fucking research, of course.' He closed his eyes, sinking his head further into the pillow it was laying on. 'So when does your research say this all ends?'

'Soon.' Arthur's tone was impenetrable.

'I still feel like shit,' Eames said.

'That should end soon.'

Eames opened his eyes and raised his head, looking at Arthur. 'I kind of just want a drink,' he confessed, studying Arthur for his reaction.

'I'm not sure that part ends so soon,' Arthur admitted, sounding almost apologetic.

'Hm,' Eames responded, dropping his head and closing his eyes again.

There was a pause, a momentary silence, as Eames once again considered how he felt. He did feel better, if still somewhat awful.

'Thanks,' he mumbled after a few minutes, not sure he wanted Arthur to hear him. He kept his eyes shut.

'Hm?' Arthur didn't sound very awake and Eames lifted his head to look at him - Arthur's eyes were closed again, his body wrapped up in yet another uncomfortable looking position on the chair.

'Thank you,' Eames said slightly louder, clearer. He studied Arthur closely, half hoping he would stay asleep through this.

He didn't. Arthur opened his eyes and met his stare, his gaze drowsy and unclear but his voice strong. 'Don't be stupid, Eames, you don't need to thank me.'

'Yeah, well…' Eames trailed off, not used to any conversations like this. 'Still.'

Arthur looked at him for a long second before closing his eyes again. 'Eames, it was nothing - I told you last night, I want you to be better. Anything I can do to make you better is worth it.'

Eames didn't move, couldn't reply to this. He looked down at the blanket he was wrapped in, wetting his lips but not knowing what to say. After he second he looked back up to see Arthur's eyes open again, watching him. 'Thanks,' he mumbled again. 'I won't mess it up,' he added quietly after another moment.

Apparently satisfied with this, Arthur closed his eyes again. 'Are you going to sleep more?' he asked, his voice still sounding groggy.

Eames laid his head back, his eyelids heavy. 'Hm, I suppose.'

'Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.'

Eames couldn't help but grin, his eyes closed. 'You too, darling.'


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic deals with rape, memory loss, and contains violence.
> 
> None of the characters, drugs, machines, or cool sci-fi stuff is mine.
> 
> Beta'd by Fitz_y, on livejournal, who was amazing.

It was almost four weeks later that Eames tried dreaming for the first time.

Eames didn't think about it all the time. There were certainly other things for him to focus on - other small victories. He still had nightmares practically every other night, but the occasional moments of panic during the day, when something Arthur did caused a flashback to Murray, were fading. He was still sleeping alone on the couch, after refusing Arthur's initial attempt to give him his king-sized bed, but he could now manage sitting on the couch with Arthur, once falling asleep on his shoulder during a movie. It was slow, but things were improving.

Some things, anyway. The PASIV device still sat out of the way, in its briefcase at the bottom of a bookshelf in Arthur's living room. Eames tried to keep it out of his mind. He hadn't brought up dreaming at all since he'd told Arthur he was scared he couldn't do it, when he'd been going through the worst of withdrawal, and Arthur had only brought up the device once.

'Stop staring at it like its going to jump out and attack you,' Arthur had said one afternoon, without turning his eyes from the movie they'd decided to watch. His tone had been half-joking, but Eames had still jumped, guiltily turning away from the bookshelf and back to the television.

'I'm not,' he'd protested, trying to remember the plot of the stupid movie.

'It's still there you know,' Arthur said, turning so he could see Eames, the movie apparently forgotten. There was a beat, as Eames tried to think of an answer. 'I mean. Whenever you want to try it,' Arthur continued.

Eames turned away more firmly, picking up his cup of tea from the coffee table in front of them. 'I'm not quite ready to jump back on that horse yet,' he said dryly, effectively ending the discussion.

Although Eames focused, from then on, on not staring in the direction of the PASIV device - at least not so obviously - neither of them brought it up again until a few days later. They were sitting in the living room, Arthur working on something on his laptop, Eames fiddling around on his own. He had nothing of any importance to work on and was trying to ignore most of the emails he had gotten over the last few weeks - mostly from Yusuf and Ariadne, one or two from work contacts who obviously hadn't heard about his self-imposed suspension from dream-sharing. Although he knew Yusuf and Ariadne had both been in contact with Arthur since Eames had decided to move in temporarily, he still didn't feel up to talking to them himself. He kept opening their most recent emails, intent on replying, before deciding he couldn't be bothered. Instead, he found himself constantly refreshing _The Guardian_ , reading articles he didn't find very interesting about what was new in British politics.

Arthur's mobile's ringtone cut through Eames' boredom. Eames stopped skimming the most recent article, his gaze traveling to Arthur, who stood up and grabbed his phone from its place on the bookshelf. He glanced at the screen before walking into the kitchen, pressing a button on the phone and answering it with a tense 'Hello?'. He didn't look at Eames as the door swung shut behind him.

It was obviously someone about a job. It was Arthur's phone specifically for business that had rung, the one that had been suspiciously quiet for the last few weeks. It was also the first time Arthur had bothered to leave the room to talk to anyone, and Eames couldn't help but try to listen closely, despite the thick door and wall between the living room and kitchen.

Arthur strode out of the kitchen just a few minutes later, the phone closed in his hand, appearing completely normal.

'Who was that?' Eames kept his voice light, almost bored, pretending to be occupied with his computer.

'No one,' Arthur brushed him off easily, sitting back down and placing his laptop back onto his knees. 

He apparently would not tell him much. 

Eames watched him, silently, for a long moment, until Arthur finally looked up from his screen, his eyebrows raised and lips pursed, nodding his head for Eames to say whatever he obviously wanted to.

'It was for a job.' It wasn't a question.

'Yeah,' Arthur confirmed on an exhale. 'But I'm not taking it,' he said, his attention already back to the screen.

Eames wasn't going to let Arthur refuse to talk about about this, no matter how many times he pretended to be fascinated by whatever stupid emails he was reading. 'Well, that's idiotic.'

'What is?' Arthur didn't look up.

'That - what, you're not going to take this job because you think I need a babysitter?' Eames said bitterly.

This did make Arthur look up. 'No,' he said in a measured tone, looking at Eames. 'I'm not going to take it because the extractor didn't have his shit together - they needed a forger for the job and expected me to find one.'

'That's bullocks,' Eames said immediately. 'There are tons of good forgers, you'd have no trouble finding one.'

'I don't want a good forger,' Arthur said, as though it was obvious. 'I want the best.' He shrugged. 'You're not ready yet - who else was I going to suggest?

Eames went still for a minute, looking at Arthur and taking this in. 'No,' he said eventually.

'What?'

'I'm not letting you destroy your career because I'm too much of a nancy to go under.' Eames tried to keep his voice even, but his frustration was obvious.

Arthur smiled slightly. 'Eames, my career is _much_ stabler than you seem to think it is. A few more weeks off won't do anything.' He looked back at his computer screen, apparently finished with the conversation. It was only a few seconds later, however, that he said, as if an afterthought, 'Hell, your reputation is such that you could walk into pretty much any job you wanted, even after all your months off.'

This made Eames pause. 'Really?'

'Yes, of course.' Arthur looked up at him again, looking slightly exasperated. 'Please, you're narcissistic enough to know that.'

'Yeah, well, I haven't been paying too much attention to the dream-sharing world as of late,' Eames said drily, pretending this wasn't a large understatement.

'Right,' Arthur said in a softer tone. 'Well. It's still there.'

Eames' eyes wandered in the direction of the PASIV machine, still in its place in the bookshelf and he found himself asking, 'So, uh… there's really not some other forger on the scene? A replacement - I mean, surely no one as good as me, but… someone?'

'Of course not,' Arthur said definitively. 'You, uh,' a conflicted look flashed across his face briefly, 'you shot your main competitor in the head.'

Eames stopped himself from flinching, barely, at this remark, and instead looked straight at Arthur, trying to appear unfazed. 'Yes, well, that was a cunning business move, wasn't it?'

Arthur looked unsure. 'Yeah,' he said slowly. 'It was genius.'

Eames' gaze returned to the briefcase and it was a full minute or so later - Arthur had returned to his typing - when Eames broke the silence. 'I think…' He swallowed. 'Let's do this, shall we?' He looked to Arthur.

'Hm?' Arthur said, still typing and not glancing up.

'I want to go under,' Eames said. 'I want to try dreaming. Right now.'

'Right now?' Arthur said, his attention suddenly fully on Eames once again, his eyebrows raised.

'Yeah,' Eames said, his voice and resolve getting stronger. 'Why not?'

'You don't want to…' Arthur's face was unreadable, 'think about it. Or anything?'

Eames shrugged, liking the idea of finally going under, into a dream, more and more. 'I've been thinking about it for weeks -- months. What's going to change between now and any other time?'

Arthur looked at Eames, studied him for so long that when he finally looked away, standing up to fetch the PASIV device, Eames felt as though he had passed some sort of test. 

It was only after Arthur had placed the briefcase on the table, moving both laptops onto the sideboard, that Eames had any second thoughts.

As he looked over the familiar machine, watched Arthur place a needle into his wrist, Eames took a deep breath, trying to ignore the beads of cold sweat he could feel forming on his forehead. He mentally went through the litany of reasons why this would go well: _Murray is dead. Nothing is going to happen in this dream that I can't control. Arthur will be with me. Murray is dead._

Eames struggled to keep his face blank, but when Arthur reached for his wrist, ready with the needle to inject the Somnacin, Eames couldn't help but flinch from his reach. Arthur looked up at him, clearly ready to abort the whole mission.

'Just promise me… if something does happen,' Eames took a breath. 'Kill me quickly, okay?'

Arthur stilled, his hand still outstretched. 'We're going under together, okay? Nothing's going to happen.'

'Arthur.' 

'Yeah, yeah, of course,' Arthur said, as if it were obvious. 'Look, nothing's going to happen - but if it does, we'll deal with it. If it gets bad, I'll wake you up, I promise, and we'll deal with it next time we go under.' Arthur studied him, the needle still ready in his hand. 'Okay?'

Eames nodded, trying to muster the courage he had felt just a few minutes before. He offered his wrist to Arthur, who carefully took hold of his non-broken hand to place the needle in. Eames gripped onto Arthur's other hand through the sharp pinch.

'I'm the dreamer, right? You're just along for the ride?' 

Arthur nodded, and tried to turn back to the machine, but Eames tightened his grip on his fingers. 'Just… don't let go of my hand, okay?' he said, looking down at their hands and the needle in his wrist, and not at Arthur.

In answer, Arthur adjusted their hands so that their fingers were laced more tightly and comfortably. 'Look,' he said, and Eames raised his eyes again as Arthur leaned over, fiddling with the machine. 'I'm only going to key in two minutes, okay? It's a first run, so it'll be short - that gives us about 25 minutes.' He looked back at Eames, as he leaned back into the couch beside him. 'You can do this,' he said, squeezing his hand slightly. 'Ready?'

Eames took a deep breath. 'Yeah, just do it.'

Arthur hit the button.

\----

They were sitting in a pub, across from one another in a wooden booth, two empty chairs on the end. The design, the music was modelled after British pubs, although Eames hadn't made it specific to any particular one. It was more a mix of some of his favourites from London - the dark wood of one he'd grown up close to, the shady lighting seen in most of the pubs he favoured, the seats hidden in nooks and crannies like in his favourite during uni.

He’d thought the location would make him feel as comfortable, as at home, as possible, but it wasn't working. He darted his gaze around, looking at all his projections suspiciously, trying to catch anything that looked out of place.

Seeing nothing, he looked to Arthur, who was also scanning the pub. Noticing Eames' gaze, he sent him an exasperated look.

'What?' Eames tried to smile, tried to sound innocent despite the low thrum of nerves he was feeling. 'I can get a drink here, right? I mean, it's not _real_ alcohol.'

Arthur pursed his lips and sighed slightly, but said nothing.

'I'll take that as a yes,' Eames said, flashing him a grin for real now as he stood up to get a drink from the bar. Although he'd never managed to get properly drunk in a dream, he knew from experience that alcohol did give the dreamer a touch of the feeling that real alcohol did, probably as a result of whatever placebo effects went into drinking the whiskey or beer. He'd been sober for four weeks now, and he was dying to see if he could still enjoy the taste of whiskey, despite how sick the withdrawal had made him.

He flexed his hand, welcoming the relief that dreaming bought from having to wear the wrap around his still-healing hand, as he walked toward the bar. Eames was relieved to see that all his projections seemed to be acting normally - he could hear snippets of typical pub banter, could see a group of young kids playing darts in a corner, watched for a second as a couple fought over a song at the jukebox.

Pleased to see that this pub featured all of his favourite beers on draught, Eames was about to order from the bartender, a cute girl in a rather skimpy top, when a movement to his left made him freeze. He slowly turned around, unsure of what he expected, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. He chalked it up to catching the movement of one of the dart players out of the corner of his eye, and was turning back around to order, when he saw it.

A hulking man wearing a balaclava.

It was only a flash, but that was all it took for Eames' heart rate to ricochet up, his blood surging. He spun around, looking again for the masked man, but he was gone. He searched the pub for any sign of him as a shot of adrenaline went through him like a bullet. He instantly felt sick, felt dizzy, sweaty. 

It didn't matter. 

Holy shit, it didn't even fucking _matter_ that Murray was dead because - because -- oh _Christ_ , was this even the real Arthur? What if this was a projection, like - Eames' mind flashed to Cobb, of how he couldn't control Mal even though she had just been a projection and suddenly he was sure - fucking _sure_ \- that this was the same thing, that Arthur --

A light touch on Eames' shoulder sent him spinning again, reaching reflexively for the gun he knew would be on his belt. He had it out, pointed and cocked before he could stop himself, before he could see that it was Arthur in front of him, both hands up in surrender, trying to say something that Eames couldn't hear over the blood pounding in his head. 

'Who are you?' Eames spat out, the gun trembling in his heads. He had a quick flash of the warehouse in Paris, of a scene reminiscent of this one, and he struggled to remain in the present, pressing his fingers against the metal of the gun so hard it hurt. He fought the urge to shoot Arthur, shoot himself, fucking shoot _something_. 'I mean --' he tried to take a deep breath. 'Prove to me that you're the real Arthur. That you're not a projection. Or. Or something.' 

'Okay,' Arthur said slowly, nodding, his hands still up. 'Eames, I'm going to do that, okay? You sit down,' he motioned to a chair that had materialised behind Eames, beside the table at which they had first found themselves, and Eames sat down slowly, watching Arthur suspiciously the entire time. He didn't put down his gun. 'Good,' Arthur said, nodding again. 'I'm going to kneel down, okay? Don't shoot - just listen to me.'

Eames kept his gun pointed at him, watching Arthur warily as he knelt down in front of his chair, all of Arthur's movements slow and measured. 

There was the sound of someone's pint glass hitting the table as Eames noticed that all the other projections in the pub had frozen and were openly watching him and Arthur. 'Christ,' Eames muttered, dropping the gun in his hand to the table beside him and allow his head to rest beside it, covering his eyes with his free hand, feeling it shaking. This was such a mistake - he was _never_ going to be over this, never going to be fucking normal again, he couldn't even trust his own bloody dreams, his own bloody mind…

'Eames,' Arthur was speaking to him, and Eames moved his hand so he could see him, trying to concentrate on him as his mind replayed all the similar freak-outs he had had over the past few months. Jesus fuck, he really had made _no_ progress.

'Eames. Come on - take some deep breaths, okay? You can do this. You _know_ you can do this.'

'Prove to me it's you,' Eames managed, his voice sounding strangled. Even through his mental fog he realised that they should have prepared for this - fuck, why didn't Arthur, with all his stupid fucking _need_ to have things so obsessively prepared, why didn't he think of this, think of some way - like a totem, or fucking _something_ \- to prove to Eames it was him.

But Arthur only looked unfazed and nodded, still talking in a calming voice. 'Okay - I can do that, Eames. Listen - are you listening, Eames?' Arthur said, leaning in and looking up at Eames, trying to force him to make eye contact despite Eames' hand still shielding his face.

Eames nodded, but didn't move his other hand away from his gun, now resting on the table. He concentrated on not jerking away from Arthur, who was still so close to him he could grab him, hit him, if he wanted to.

'Okay, Eames, do you remember the first job we did together? Do you remember when we met - remember Mal hosted that party when she was pregnant with James in Toulouse? Eames, do you remember that?' Eames closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing, on swallowing, on his hands still shaking, and after a second Arthur continued. 'And the next day - do you remember that was the first time we went under together, preparing for the Kohlman job?'

Eames opened his eyes, staring at the floor instead of looking at Arthur, but listening intently.

'Mal was scared that the Somnacin would hurt the baby so she never went under then, just watched and did research - listen, do you remember that, Eames?'

His breathing somewhat slower, Eames nodded, his head still down and his hand still resting on his gun. 

'The first day we went under together - remember that dingy apartment we were using? - Mal left a note in my pocket for when I woke up. Did I ever tell you this?' Arthur let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. 'She was so sweet, wasn't she? Anyway, the note, it just said _He's cute, yes_?' Arthur paused here, as if this should mean something, and Eames couldn't help but sit up more, his head out of his hand now, still watching Arthur closely. Arthur's eyebrows were knitted and Eames could tell that Arthur was worried, that he wasn't quite as calm as he sounded - Eames couldn't think if that supported him being real or not.

'See? Who else would know that? Even Cobb didn't know that, what Mal's note said to me.'

Eames studied him, his breathing steadier still. Arthur didn't move, leaning close to him from his place on the floor. Eames could feel the tension start to ebb out of his body, slowly, his shaking suddenly not as harsh. He remembered a folded note in his own pocket that day, a note about Arthur from Mal, and a flood of warmth went through him as he took a deep breath. 

'She gave me a note about you,' Eames said eventually, in a strangled voice.

'Really?' Arthur asked, without sounding surprised.

Eames nodded, even tried to smile. 'Yeah, it just said _What a know it all, huh?_ ' Eames knew the joke fell flat, that it wasn't even a good try - his voice was still wavering and his smile wasn't convincing. But he knew it was Arthur in front of him - _really_ Arthur - and he let his hand finally slip away from his gun.

Arthur glared at him for a split second, before a smile broke through his mock outrage. Eames felt his own smile widen, even as he felt the cold sweat still running down his back.

'So it is you,' he said after a moment, sitting up fully and taking another deep breath, trying to stop shaking.

'Yes.'

'I - sorry --' Eames began.

'No need to apologise,' Arthur said brusquely, but not unkindly. He checked his watch, leaning back on his heels. 'But hey - if you really _need_ to have a beer, you should do it soon, I only keyed in --' 

\---

Eames blinked his eyes open, pulling his hand away from Arthur's right away. Despite the relatively easy ending of the dream, Eames felt a flush of shame as he bit his lip, working the needle quickly - but carefully - out of his wrist. 

Nothing had changed. Despite all the reasons Eames had used to try to convince himself that dreaming would be okay, nothing had changed. Christ, even the easiest dream and he was right back to where he'd been in London months ago - terrified of Arthur, unsure of what was real and what wasn't.

'You okay?' Arthur asked, and Eames turned to him. They were still both sitting on the couch, but Arthur had moved over as much as he could, giving Eames more room and reminding him yet again that he was reverting to past behaviour.

'Yeah,' Eames said, his voice breathy yet almost calm. He rolled up the IV line for the PASIV device, leaning forward to put it away in the briefcase. 'Yeah,' he said again, looking back at Arthur. 'I'm sorry I --' he broke off, bringing his hand up to his head as he leaned back. 'Christ, I want a drink,' he muttered, his eyes on the ceiling.

'Yeah, I did notice we were in a pub. I thought we talked about starting on nice, calming walks on the beach or something?' Arthur said lightly.

Eames moved his hand, glancing at Arthur. 'Beach, pub - practically the same thing, yeah?' He tried to match his light tone, before turning serious again. 'That was… less smooth then I would have liked.'

Arthur shrugged, grinning. 'Eh, it could have gone worse.'

'Not much.'

'Neither of us is bleeding,' Arthur reminded him. 'You didn't run out of the room to puke. You didn't kill yourself - or me - in the dream.'

'Only because of you and your story,' Eames said, watching Arthur for his reaction.

Arthur smiled. 'What can I say, I'm a point man at heart. I wanted to be prepared.'

'Still,' Eames said, leaning his head back again. 'We weren't under long.'

'No,' Arthur agreed.

'I mean… if we'd stayed under longer, who knows what might have happened. Who might have - have shown up.'

'Eames.' Arthur paused until Eames sat up straighter, looking at him again. 'Can't you just be happy that went well? That you did well?'

'I just… I want to be back in control. I need to get it all back under control,' Eames said, trying to make Arthur understand why he considered their test run a failure. If he couldn't trust Arthur - or himself - in the most basic of dreams, he couldn't do anything.

'You're doing better,' Arthur said gently.

'No. I'm not,' Eames said flatly. 'Not really.'

'Eames. A few weeks ago you were drinking all the time, scared to be a room with me - you never would have tried dreaming. You have to understand that you've gotten a lot better since even then.'

Eames looked away. 'Yeah, I guess,' he said, sounding unconvinced even to himself.

'No, not I guess,' Arthur said firmly. 'Shit, Eames - you have to be proud of yourself, of how you've been doing. _I'm_ proud of you.'

Eames couldn't help but laugh slightly. 'Really? You're proud that I barely leave the flat, can't think about work, that I revert to being terrified of you and bloody everything as soon as I even try going under? You're proud because - what? Because I don't drink myself into oblivion every night anymore, because I'm not out taking god knows what drugs with random strangers? That I don't flinch automatically when you come near me?' Eames studied Arthur, sure that this would convince him that he wasn't any better than he had been weeks ago, small victories not withstanding.

'You're not being fair.' Arthur shook his head slightly.

'Why not?' Eames asked, and was surprised to hear his tone made the question more genuine then he'd first meant. 'How long am I supposed to keep my life at bay while I recuperate over one nightmare?'

Arthur watched him for a long moment, biting at his lip. He started to speak once before stopping himself, eventually just saying, 'Has anyone told you that you're very impatient?'

Eames blinked. 'I might have heard that complaint once or twice,' he admitted.

Arthur smiled at him. 'You're doing better, Eames,' he said simply.

Eames looked at him. 'I dunno,' he said, suddenly sick of talking and thinking about it all, and hoping that would be the end of it.

'Look, it was something new. The first time was bound to be terrible, but it's over and now things can improve from here.' Eames glanced away, unconvinced, and heard Arthur sigh. 'Eames, would you have been able to do this a few weeks ago?' Eames looked back at him to see Arthur motion to the two of them sitting side by side on the couch. 'Would you have held my hand a week ago?'

Eames just looked at him, his silence giving his answer. It was true that his fear of Arthur, of any physical contact, had faded noticeably in the past few weeks, but Eames didn't think that was enough, not really. 

'Well… thanks,' he said after a minute, 'for keeping me from freaking out in there.'

'Yeah well, it's a true story,' Arthur said, accepting Eames' change of topic. 'Thank Mal.'

'So she thought I was cute, huh?' Eames said, struggling to get back to their usual banter. He settled back on the couch again, and shifted slightly closer to Arthur, trying to push the dream behind him. 'I always thought there was something between Mal and me.'

Eames glanced at Arthur just in time to see him roll his eyes while he let out a laugh. 'Please don't kid yourself,' he said. 'She only had eyes for Cobb. She just wanted to set us up.' He looked over at Eames. 'So I take it your little addendum wasn't true.'

'Of course not,' Eames scoffed. 'You were the apple of Mal's eye.' He paused for a beat before continuing, 'I mean - you are a know-it-all, so it's sort of true. Reality in fiction and all that.' Arthur rolled his eyes again and opened his mouth to respond, but Eames went on. 'She did give me a note that day, though,' he said more seriously.

'Oh?'

'Yeah… you seem to have gotten the more subtle note, though. Mine was more direct.'

'Well?' Arthur asked, his eyebrows raised.

'Mine said _He'd be good for you_.' Eames looked away, remembering that day, that job, the first time he'd worked with Arthur, the way Mal hadn't been at all discreet in her trying to pair them up. He remembered meeting Arthur for the first time, how he'd made a dig about Arthur's clothes, the waistcoats and suit jackets he was wearing even then, to Cobb and Mal after they'd introduced them. How Mal had sprung to Arthur's defence, telling Eames curtly that he would benefit from learning some fashion sense from Arthur, before laughing and suggesting Arthur take him shopping.

'Well,' Arthur said after a minute, pulling Eames from his memories, 'she was usually right about these things.' Eames looked back at him to see him smiling.

'Thank you,' Eames said suddenly. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but Eames rushed on, speaking quickly. 'Don't worry, it'll be the last time I say it, but thank you. Mal was right - you are good for me. And I may fuck it up and it's driving me crazy that it's so slow, but I am getting better. I guess. Slowly.'

'You are.' Arthur put his hand over Eames', curling his warm fingers around his again and watching to make sure it was okay. 'This?' he said after a second, nodding to their hands. 'This is incredible, Eames. Your dreaming was incredible. Don't downplay it.'

Eames pursed his lips, thinking for a second as he stared at their hands, not moving away. He looked up at Arthur before saying, speaking more slowly, 'I love you. You know that, right? I love you.' Arthur quirked an eyebrow, looking faintly surprised. Neither Arthur nor Eames had mentioned Arthur's confession since it had happened a few weeks ago, when Eames had been so sick, but it had been constantly on Eames' mind.

'I couldn't… I was messed up when you said that,' Eames said haltingly, trying to think through his words. He'd already screwed this up the first time, when he hadn't been able to answer Arthur, he didn't want to screw it up again. 'But I love you. Of course I bloody loved you - I think I loved you since the Fischer job. Maybe since the Kohlman job, I don't know.' Eames stopped, bit his lip, watching Arthur for his reaction.

Arthur smiled, gripping his hand more tightly. 'Eames, it's okay. I sprang it on you before, but I…' he made a face, scrunching his forehead in a way that Eames always found adorable. 'I had an idea,' he said sternly, ducking his head to smile.

'Yeah, you've always been quick on the uptake,' Eames said, feeling his nervousness dissolve. 'I just… thought I should tell you,' he finished somewhat awkwardly. He paused a minute before shifting closer to Arthur, still watching him closely. 'You know…' he said slowly, enjoying that, since he had woken up from the dream, he could again do this, could be near Arthur and not freak out - could be near him and _enjoy_ it. 'One way I would know that I was getting better… that you honestly thought I was getting better… was if I could kiss you?'

'Eames, you can kiss me whenever you want - I just want --'

He didn't let Arthur finish. He tilted forward, closing his eyes as he caught Arthur's lips with his own. Arthur responded, his soft lips yielding to Eames', and he felt Arthur let go of his hand, tentatively wrapping an arm around his back.

Eames didn't freeze, didn't panic, only deepened the kiss, leaning into Arthur's body greedily. The memories he had of last kissing Arthur, in Paris against the wall in the alley, felt hazy now, as if he had been on drugs at the time. But this - this was better, he knew it was. This time neither of them was unsure, Eames wasn't terrified and excited all at once - this - this slow warm kiss - was much closer to perfect.

They broke apart after a minute, Arthur pulling back gently. Eames kept his eyes closed, still wrapped in Arthur's arms, and breathed for a minute. Their foreheads were titled toward one another, still touching faintly, and Eames pressed them closer, just gently. Arthur's hands were secure around him, not threatening, and Eames wanted to stay, exactly like this, as he felt Arthur tighten his hold slightly.

'You okay?' he heard Arthur ask, sounding nervous.

'Yeah,' Eames shifted back reluctantly, so he could see Arthur. Eames watched his mouth, his lips still red, and resisted the urge to lean in and kiss him again. 'I'm good.' He forced his gaze away from his lips, back to Arthur's eyes.

Arthur was smiling. 'And see? You're already doing so much better.'

Eames laughed and leaned back, readjusting both of them so that he was sitting beside Arthur again, his head close to his shoulder. Eames did feel, despite himself, ridiculously proud in that moment - proud that he could kiss Arthur, could touch him, could be this close to him this easily, without the rush of adrenaline and fear that had ruled their relationships for so many months.

'So Mal was right then,' Eames said after a minute.

'Yeah, Mal was right,' Arthur said warmly, turning his head more towards Eames.

Eames looked at him out of the corner of his eye, his head still partly on Arthur's shoulder. 'Just to clarify, I did mean about me being cute.'

'Oh, yeah,' Arthur said, grinning. 'I guess that, too.'


End file.
